Burning Bright
by SylvieT
Summary: An event will make Grissom reevaluate his priorities. A little angst, a case file and a lot of GSR love.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Like a true addict, I'm displaying withdrawal symptoms already and becoming grumpy at home, so here I am again. It's only a short one, set between the end of season 6 and the start of season 7. I know you were kind of expecting a sequel to _Mens Rea_, but my muse isn't cooperating on that front. This is what came to me instead and demanded I post. It's very hazy in my head still, so comments and ideas are as usual greatly appreciated.

I hope you'll enjoy.

Lyrics are from Guns N' Roses' _Sweet child o' Mine_.

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><p>Burning Bright.<p>

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><p>Brass's brow was pinched, his heart racing, as he screeched to a halt a hundred yards or so from the burning three-storey apartment building. Thick grey smoke billowed up to the hazy sky, blocking the sun, turning daytime into night. Fire engines, ambulances, police cruisers all with their lights flashing were parked haphazardly, blocking the road, blocking his view. A large crowd of onlookers had already gathered, watching the fire and fire rescue's fraught attempt at controlling it in rapt silence and morbid fascination.<p>

Brass got out of his car, pushed through the crowd and then stood still and stunned for a second outside the cordoned off area as he too surveyed the scene before him. Uniformed personnel rushed about, carrying equipment, calling to each other, shouting out instructions, commands, and yet despite the chaos, noise briefly seemed to recede into the background as he stared powerless. The deep sense of foreboding that had gripped him ever since he'd heard about the fire showed no sign of abating. Running a hand over his face, he briefly closed his eyes.

"Please, God," he bid silently, "let her be safe."

He had been in the dispatch room when the call had come in, his ears pricking up immediately at the seriousness of the call. "Did you say '1727 Santa Paula Drive'?" he asked, suddenly afraid, as he moved closer to the dispatcher in question.

The dispatcher glanced at him over her shoulder while her fingers continued dancing over her keyboard, logging the rest of the call. "That's right, Sir," she replied quietly. "402, threatening to spread to nearby properties. Officers are evacuating the area. Fire crews and EMTs already at the scene."

A look at his watch told Brass Sara should be home at this time of the afternoon, catching up on sleep before shift. "Any casualties?" he asked brusquely, and without missing a beat the dispatcher relayed the question to the officer at the end of the line.

"They don't know, Sir."

Brass let out a long breath, then nodded his head and pulled his cell out of his pocket. Hurriedly he scrolled down his contact list to Sara and running over to the PD car lot called her. He'd known before the call even went to voice mail that she wouldn't pick up.

As badge in hand he jogged through the roadblock closer to the building, he scanned the faces of the people who'd escaped the fire for that of Sara, but to no avail. Some were being tended to by paramedics and made to hold oxygen masks to their faces while others just looked on, faces blackened with soot, dazed and confused, shocked and subdued by what was happening. The heat was suddenly intense, the flames clearly visible now, coming out of the front windows and licking their way up to the roof. He looked for her car in the lot, but again his view was obstructed and he didn't see it.

"Who's in charge?" he shouted up to a fire fighter manning one of the pumps, once again flashing his badge.

"Captain De Souza over there," the man shouted back, indicating a man in a red helmet up ahead.

Brass quickly caught up to him, the heat and noise from the fire, the engines and the water gushing all adding to his stress. At this rate, there would be nothing left of the building. Just pray that she got out in time or wasn't home when the fire broke out.

"Captain?" Brass called breathlessly, and the man turned toward him, "Captain Brass, LVPD."

"You know something I don't?"

"Sorry?"

"Homicide," the fire captain said, nodding at Brass's badge.

"Oh. No. I―One of my CSIs, Sara Sidle, she lives on the second floor, round the back. She's not out here."

"And you're sure she was home?"

Brass shrugged. "She's not answering her phone."

The captain gave a sharp nod, blew out a breath. "My guys are inside, searching. If she's in there, they'll find her."

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><p>Quietly whistling to the songs playing on the portable radio, Grissom once again loaded the roller with white paint, climbed the two steps up the ladder and brought the roller to the ceiling, applying the paint in a criss-cross fashion as advised. His shoulder was beginning to ache, but he was almost done. He wasn't a fan of decorating, but the bathroom in his mother's condo had suffered some water damage and since Betty had only just moved to Vegas from the East Coast and didn't know any reliable, deaf-friendly decorators he'd offered his services.<p>

"_She's got a smile that it seems to me, Reminds me of childhood memories, Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky…_"

A smile formed on his face, his whistling turning to humming as the song made him think of Sara. They'd been seeing each other for just under a year now, their anniversary in a few weeks' time and try as he might he couldn't think what to get her. Flowers and chocolates seemed too cliché somehow, and not enough. Lingerie was too obvious. A book maybe, he wondered before dismissing the idea as too impersonal. Besides, he'd already given her a book as present a lifetime ago. No, he wanted something unique and original, something that would show his appreciation and devotion, his commitment to her and to a future together.

That morning they'd met at the park after shift, taken Hank on a long walk and then shared a leisurely breakfast at her place. His place, her place, it didn't matter as such, but he'd had the previous night off when she hadn't, and so she'd headed off to bed when he'd finally left at midday, Hank in tow, to go to his mother's. She'd stood at the door in her robe, still damp from her shower, a vision to behold and he'd had a hard time tearing himself away.

The smile grew on his face as it suddenly came to him, the perfect present, a gift from him, a token of his love he knew she would wear proudly. Jewellery was a girl's best friend, right? Or was that diamond? He was loading the roller with paint again when Betty stepped over the threshold, moving into his eye line. Following forlornly behind Hank gave a series of little whines while totally oblivious to the dog's needs for a tinkle Betty admired his handiwork.

"Do you want another coffee?" she signed when pausing he looked up at her. "Tea? Something to eat?"

Grissom smiled, shook his head and put the roller down. "I need to go into work early," he replied with his hands, "and I want to finish this first."

Betty smiled and nodded her head while openly staring at him. "You look good, Gil," she finally signed, her smile somewhat fading, "Happy."

His expression softening with affection, Grissom straightened up from crouching. Briefly he contemplated telling his mother about Sara, that she was the reason behind his happier, more carefree state of mind these days, but opted not to. It was stupid really, this need to compartmentalise, but if Betty knew she'd want to meet Sara. And she'd have questions, questions that would put pressure on the relationship, pressure where it wasn't needed. He was happy with the way things were, and knew Sara was too.

"I am," he signed back, his smile wide and dancing as he made the sign for happy.

Betty's smile widened once more, and she nodded her head before looking up again and giving the ceiling another appraising look. "You've done a good job," she signed before lifting a flat hand to her chin and lowering it, thanks Grissom accepted with a smile and a sharp nod of the head.

Hank sat on his hind legs and barked, and Grissom lowered his gaze to him and shook his head. "All right," he told him in a chuckle, and then addressing his mother, "Could you take him round the block for me while I finish? He needs to pee. His lead is in the backpack in the kitchen."

Registering a look of surprise Betty turned to Hank and patted her hand to his side apologetically. Grissom told him to go for walkies, and the dog grudgingly followed Betty to the kitchen. The Doors' _Light My Fire_ started on the radio and once again picking up his roller he returned to his painting. Half an hour later he was just about finishing when he heard the front door open and shut, heralding their return. He popped his head round the bathroom door and came face to face with his mother. She was holding his flashing cell phone in her hand.

Thinking it Sara, he pulled his paint-covered latex gloves off and took the phone from her. _Jim Brass_ was flashing on the display, as well as four missed calls. With a sigh, he connected the call.

"Gil!" shouted Brass, sounding relieved, before Grissom had even time to identify himself.

Frowning, Grissom moved the phone away from his ear and reached over to turn the radio off. The line was bad, the noise in the background deafening. Grissom could hear men shouting, engines whirring, sirens screaming. Brass was clearly at a scene. "Jim? I can hardly hear you."

There was a pause, and the background noises receded, muffled now.

"Catherine's on call, Jim, not me," Grissom tried again.

"She's on her way," Brass said, his tone glum and anxious, and then with an edge of despair that sent shivers down Grissom's spine, "I've been trying to call you."

"I'm sorry. I'm at my mother's."

"There's been a fire, Gil. 1727 Santa Paula Drive. It's under control now, but the front side of the building's gone up in smoke."

His heart skipped a beat. He glanced up at his mother watching him with concern and turned away. "But that's Sara's place."

"I know."

Panic began to set in as Brass's words sank in. "Where is she? Is she with you now? Can I speak with her?" Why hadn't she called him?

"I'm sorry, Gil. They had to go get her out. She―"

Betty put her hand on his shoulder, and he turned, briefly meeting her concerned gaze before looking away to hide his distress. "Is she okay?" he asked into the phone, his voice breaking.

"I don't know. She was unconscious but breathing when they got her out. She'd made it out of the apartment and as far as the stairs. But the smoke, well, it must have got to her. They're taking her to Desert Palm now."

"Are you with her?" His words were mere, breathless whispers.

"I'm following in my car. They wouldn't let me ride with her, but they're treating her."

"I'm on my way," he said, and disconnected the call.

Betty touched him on the arm again, startling him. "Gil? What's wrong?"

"It's Sara," he replied, still stunned by the events, "She's at the hospital. I got to go."

"Sara?" Betty signed carefully. "From work?"

Grissom swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded his head. Hurriedly he began putting the lid back on the paint pot and gathering brushes and rags. Betty stopped him and told him to go, not to worry, that she'd tidy all that. He gave her another fraught nod, and staring at him closely she lifted her hand to his face and gave him a small, pained smile. He didn't need to tell her how much Sara meant to him, that she was more than just a work colleague, she'd read it in the sudden deep ache and anguish in his eyes.

"There was a fire," he signed, tears welling.

Betty gave a nod. "Go," she signed, mirroring his distress, "Go be with her."

He was about to go when he had a moment's hesitation and his gaze lowered to Hank hovering anxiously nearby.

"I'll look after Hank for you," Betty signed, reading his mind.

"I don't know how long I'm going to be. No, it's all right. I'll take him to the sitter on the way." He moved over to the sink and pulled the dust sheet off to wash his hands and face.

"That'll take time," Betty replied with her hands. "He's fine here, with me. I promise not to forget his walk. Just go."

Her attempt at levity failed. He turned off the water, then took in and released a deep breath. Hastily he dried himself and changed his paint-splattered T-shirt for a clean one, but kept his old jeans and sneakers on. At the front door, Grissom bent down to Hank who had been following his every move with intent and ruffled the top of his head affectionately.

"You're staying here," he told the dog warmly, and then when Hank's doleful eyes got too much, "Sara's okay. She's okay. She's going to be fine."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Just in case you are wondering after reading...A bronchoscopy is a procedure performed through a small scope to look directly at the degree of change done to the airways and to allow for suctioning of secretions and debris.

And remember I'm not a doctor, so I apologise for any mistakes in that respect. Thanks for reading and please leave a review. ;-)

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><p>The automatic doors opened and Grissom rushed into the ER making straight for the main desk. He didn't notice the crowded lobby and waiting area, or Brass suddenly looking up and straightening in his seat as he hurried past. He'd driven like a maniac to get there, parked in a handicapped spot. Brass's call had sent him into a spin, its lack of specific detail as to Sara's exact condition fuelling his anxiety.<p>

The statistics didn't lie, he kept thinking. An estimated fifty to eighty percent of fire deaths are the result of smoke inhalation injuries rather than burns. What if he was already too late? What if she wasn't to make it?

A couple of doctors stood behind the desk conferring over a file, a nurse was on the phone, while another was updating patients' details on the wall-mounted board behind the counter. Sara's name didn't feature, but he figured that was because she'd only just come in. He came to a sudden halt and leaning over the counter breathlessly addressed the nurse. His panic and worry were undisguised, palpable.

"Sara Sidle," he said without preamble, and paused to catch his breath.

The nurse turned toward him.

"She was brought in about a half-hour ago? House fire."

The nurse pursed her lips. "Let me see. Several people were brought in at the same time. Are you her next of kin?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation. Whether he legally was, or not, was of no importance.

The nurse nodded, then searched through a stack of clipboards piled up high on one corner of the desk and pulled one out. "She's stable," she said at last, as her eyes scanned Sara's medical notes, and looked up. "She was brought in with a diagnosis of severe smoke inhalation and burns to her right hand."

Grissom remembered Brass telling him that the fire department had found her in the staircase and he could well imagine she'd burned her hand while letting herself out of her locked apartment. The heat, the smoke, would have been so intense and disorienting. Thank God she'd woken up and made it out of bed, he thought suddenly. The alternative didn't bear thinking about. The thought of her in that fire, panicked and suffering, tore at his heart.

He blew a calming breath, nodded his head. "How severe?" he asked, fearful.

"You'll have to ask the doctor that, I'm afraid."

"When she was…found, she was unconscious." His voice broke with emotion, and he cleared his throat. "Has she…hum…regained consciousness at all?"

The nurse consulted the chart. "She hadn't when she was brought in. She's been assessed and tests have been ordered. We'll know more when her blood cultures come back, but according to this she's on a hundred percent oxygen at the moment. I can't tell you more than that, I'm afraid. Dr Winslade is the attending. I'll track her down, let her know you're here. She'll explain everything in more detail."

"Can I see her?"

The nurse gave a well-practised, appeasing smile. "I'm sure you can, very soon." She reached over, patting him on the arm, and Grissom mustered a weak smile back. The nurse then reached down below the counter, produced a sheet she clipped to a new clipboard with a pen on a string attached to it, and held both out to him. "I need you to fill this in, please, Sir, while you're waiting?"

Grissom looked down, nodded his head and wordlessly took the clipboard and pen from her.

"Try to fill in as much as you can, as accurately as you can, and then just drop it back here when you're done. There's a waiting room over there," she said, pointing, and Grissom numbly followed where she was indicating, only now noticing Brass watching, a small, crooked smile slowly forming as he met Grissom's gaze. "Dr Winslade won't be long, I'm sure."

Grissom turned back to the nurse and nodded his head. "Thank you."

The nurse flashed a smile before turning to address the next person, and with a sigh Grissom walked over to where Brass was sitting. He felt flushed and sweaty despite the air conditioning, while Brass looked downright tired and anxious. He stood up, briefly taking in Grissom's appearance before lifting his eyes to his, a question in them. "Any news?"

Grissom shrugged. "The nurse only confirmed what you'd already told me and that she was stable. I'm waiting to hear from the doctor that's treating her."

Brass nodded, and they sat down side by side. Grissom tried to reign in his emotion for the sake of appearances, put his professional mask on his face, but it was hard. A television showing the latest sporting results hung in one corner of the room with the sound turned down low. Idly he lifted his eyes to it, thinking it would give him something to focus his mind on. It didn't work.

"God, I hate hospitals," Brass said, as a message went out over the PA system. "All that waiting around..." his words faded and he sighed.

Remembering that not that long ago it had been Brass in the ER with a bullet through the chest, Grissom flashed an awkward smile, nodded his head. "Thanks for staying with her, Jim," he added after a while.

Brass's shoulder lifted. "This is the closest they'd let me be, you know?"

"Still, it means a lot she wasn't alone."

Nodding, Brass watched Grissom, seemingly waiting, maybe suspecting, but Grissom wasn't ready to tell the world just yet. Brass's eyes lowered to the clipboard Grissom was clutching in his hand. "You got any means of contacting her family?" he asked. "I know her father died but…" his words trailed off uncertainly.

Grissom blew a long breath; he'd not even thought about it. He chose his words carefully. "I don't think that's what Sara would want. Not yet anyway. Let's just…wait till we know more."

"I'm sure the doc will be over soon."

Grissom gave a pallid nod. Another message played over the PA system, and glancing toward the main desk Grissom shifted impatiently. "How long would you ascertain she'd been unconscious for? I mean, before they found her."

"I don't know," Brass said quietly. "But they treated her real quick once she was out."

Grissom swallowed, nodded his head and looked down at the clipboard in his hand. He grabbed the pen, but his hand shook too much for him to be able to write legibly. "You said the fire department had the fire under control?" he said, slowly closing his hand in a fist to stop the tremor, and looked over Brass. "How bad was it?"

Brass shook his head. "It was bad, Gil, spreading and burning very quickly. I don't think there'll be much left they can salvage."

"What the fire hasn't destroyed, the smoke or water will have," Grissom remarked quietly, and sighed. Then his gaze narrowed at Brass's words. "You think the fire was started deliberately? That some sort of accelerant was used maybe?"

Brass opened his hands in a your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine gesture. "That, or someone was storing stuff they shouldn't have. FD will tell us."

The two men fell silent. An old man sat down across from them, nodded his head. A woman paced nearby, trying to soothe a fractious baby. Grissom rubbed at his face, then looked up to the TV before sitting up at the images on the screen, live aerial shots showing the blaze itself and fire crews perched on the end of ladders holding hoses as they tried to control it, then its aftermath, the still smouldering remains and more damping down efforts. Night was beginning to fall.

His heartbeat quickened again. It was strange seeing the familiar neighbourhood from the sky, heart-breaking to witness its desolation and the charred mess of what was left Sara's apartment building. He tapped Brass on the arm, indicated the muted images and together they watched the action make way to a reporter standing outside the cordoned off area against a backdrop of fire trucks.

He was interviewing a balding man with an expressive face and who gestured a lot, a witness presumably – a neighbour or resident maybe, someone Grissom didn't recognise – that had seen it all happen and was now regaling the reporter of the finer details. The man's name flashed on the screen, and without even realising Grissom made a mental note of it. When the footage ended and the news programme cut to commercials, he looked over to the front desk again and to the nurse he'd spoken to before, now on the phone, silently pleading with her to hurry. He checked his watch; the wait was excruciating.

"Does Sara know how you feel about her?"

Grissom's head snapped up, Brass's question catching him totally off guard. He thought about playing dumb, but was far too anxious and worried to bother denying it. "Is it that obvious?"

Brass shrugged his reply.

"Yes, she does," he answered at last.

Brass gave a slow nod. "It figures. I mean, I always knew you two had…how can I put it…affinities. Sara, bless her, she wears her heart on her sleeve, but you? I never thought you'd act on your feelings for her."

"Well, I did," Grissom stated, a little smugly, or was it proudly?

Brass smiled warmly. "How long?"

Grissom's smile was soft and contemplative. "A little under a year." He eased a look at his friend, waiting for his reaction.

Brass's brow rose in surprise, then he gave a wry chuckle. "And no one knows?"

Grissom shook his head. "And it must stay that way. Too much is at stake."

Turning in his seat Brass patted his hand to Grissom's leg. "Your secret's safe with me, but you might want to…play it cooler than you've been doing so far."

Before Grissom could respond a small woman dressed in blue scrubs came into the waiting area, scanned the many faces and called, "Family of Sara Sidle?"

Grissom set the clipboard down on the next chair. "That's me," he replied, pushing to his feet abruptly with Brass flowing suit more sedately.

"I'm Dr Winslade. I treated Sara when she was brought in."

"Gil Grissom," Grissom said, "and this is my friend Jim Brass. How is she?"

"She's stable, already showing signs of responding to treatment. Her skin colour is a little better as a consequence." Sharing a look with Brass, Grissom blew a breath of relief. "She briefly regained consciousness and gave positive responses to stimuli. The EMTs acted fast, immediately administering one hundred percent oxygen in the setting of hypoxia―"

"Hypoxia?" Brass interrupted.

"It's when not enough oxygen gets to the body," Grissom provided with a sideways glance at his friend before refocusing on the doctor and silently urging her to carry on.

"Hence treating the likely carbon monoxide inhalation, which is what we're carrying on with until we get the results of the blood cultures we've sent for and know more about level of poisoning."

Brass's phone chose this moment to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket, checked the screen and after giving a quick apology stepped aside to take the call.

"What about damage to her lungs and airways?" Grissom asked.

The doctor's shoulder lifted. "Without looking at chest X-rays it's hard to tell. We're waiting for a slot in radiology, it shouldn't be much longer. All we can see for now is that her nostrils, nasal passages and throat all show some degree of exposure to heat and signs of swelling, which is what we'd expect."

"Are you going to do a bronchoscopy?"

"Not at present. We're monitoring her closely and if she fails to demonstrate enough clinical improvement within the next few hours we will."

Grissom nodded. "And her hand?"

"She suffered some second degree burns to the inside of her right hand, but that's all." The doctor opened her hand flat, palm up toward him, and showed him where. "Think of it as bad oven burns. It'll heal, and in time she should regain full function of her hand."

Grissom blew out a breath of relief. "Can I see her?"

The doctor patted him on the arm and smiled. "Give me five minutes, and I'll take you to her."

Grissom nodded, then watched the doctor go and turned toward Brass, still on the phone.

"Thanks, Catherine," Brass said, before disconnecting and looking over at Grissom.

"So?" they asked in unison.

"You first," Brass said, slipping his phone back in his pocket.

"She's doing okay. They're waiting to take her to X-ray to check her lungs, but she's responding to treatment."

"Oh, that's good," Brass said, clearly relieved, before he sighed and his expression darkened."Fire department appears to have found…evidence of accelerant. Petrol most probably, and a lot of it. They found some badly burned cans among the rubble."

A chill ran through Grissom. "So we _are_ looking at arson."

"It would appear so," Brass said, nodding. "But that's not the worst of it. Catherine said they found a body."

"A body?"

Brass nodded. "Female, by the looks of it, and inside apartment 1B according to the building plans. They're trying to contact the owner, see who lived there. The coroner's on his way."

Looking off into the middle distance, Grissom gave a nod and tried to put a face to the woman who lived in 1B, whose path he may have crossed, and even said a polite "Hello" to, but conjured up nothing. Someone had started that fire deliberately, killing an innocent victim and seriously injuring Sara.

"Gil?"

Grissom gave his head a shake, refocusing.

"Catherine says not to worry about shift," Brass went on, "that she and the guys have got it covered. They were all very shocked when they heard and wanted to come to the hospital, but Catherine convinced them that they'd be more useful at work."

"I'll call her when I've seen Sara."

"That'll be good." Brass looked around the waiting room while restlessly swaying on the ball of his feet. He clapped Grissom on the shoulder. "I can see she's in good hands, so I'm going to make tracks now. Head back to the scene. You call as soon as you get more news, all right?"

"I will."

Grissom watched Brass leave through the automatic doors, then heavily sat back down on the hard plastic chair and rubbed the weariness from his face. Then he picked up the clipboard and filled in Sara's details as well as his, her next of kin.

"Sir?"

Grissom looked up at Doctor Winslade with a start.

"She's awake."


	3. Chapter 3

Catherine stared at the gutted building with disbelief. Now that the fire was out and most of the smoke had cleared, she could see that the damage was extensive and spanning all three floors, but mainly concentrated to the front half of the building. The roof had partially caved in there, where the fire had been at its most intense, the charred remains of the roof frame sticking up toward the darkening sky ominously. Would the building have to be knocked down altogether before it was rebuilt, she wondered?

What must it be like to lose everything in a matter of minutes? Catherine's heart clenched at the thought. She couldn't imagine losing her home, everything she'd worked so hard for, all her mementoes, Lindsay's baby stuff she'd kept in a box on the top shelf in her closet. She hoped Sara's apartment was situated at the back, and then maybe some of her things might have been spared.

Catherine had only been to Sara's place once before, and she'd not made it further than the car lot. Sara had just found out her then-boyfriend was two-timing her, and they'd shared a drink after shift and commiserated. Catherine was used to men cheating on her, always more or less expected it, whereas Sara wasn't. The deception had hit Sara hard, and at the time Catherine was glad she could see past their differences and be there for her. They'd turned a corner then, their relationship shifting from professional to more friendly, the rivalry between them lessening.

"Does this look like Sara's to you?"

Catherine turned with a start and looked at the tan boot Greg was holding in her line of vision. It was a man's boot, well-worn and speckled with soot, size eight or nine, if she were to hazard a guess. The laces were undone and dragging. "It certainly looks like something she'd wear," Catherine replied in a sigh, and looked up at Greg. "Where did you find it?"

"Over there, near the fire truck," Greg said, motioning toward the car lot.

Catherine looked in that direction, where the fire department was beginning to pack away its gear. Maybe the boot had fallen off Sara's foot when the firefighters had carried her out of the building and rushed her to an awaiting ambulance. "I don't think she'll want to wear it again," she said, bringing her gaze back to Greg.

Lips pinched as he stared at the boot, Greg gave a nod. "I'll keep it anyway," he said, not meeting her eye and sounding all choked up.

Catherine's features softened with affection. The coroner's truck pulled up nearby, and Greg quickly, surreptitiously wiped at his eyes. David and two assistants got out. Catherine and Greg watched as the trio kitted up, a forlorn David nodding his head at them as he walked past, headed to the scene where the fire chief met them and talked them through how to access the corpse.

"I feel so damn powerless," Greg exclaimed suddenly and kicked an invisible stone in frustration. "I just wish there was more we could do for her before it's too late."

"It's already too late, Greg," Catherine said.

"She's lost everything."

Catherine sighed. "She still got her life," she said. "And she's got us. We'll help her through this."

Greg nodded his head, then pinched his lips and shook his head, and Catherine wrapped her arm around his shoulders. "All I keep thinking," he said, "is that the body inside the building could be hers. What if they hadn't got her out?"

Catherine kept a protective arm around Greg's shoulders. "But they did get her out, and they're doing all they can for her now, which is all that matters."

"I wish Grissom would call with news."

Catherine gave Greg an indulgent smile, patted his shoulder. "He's probably at the lab already, updating Nick and Warrick on her status." She lowered her arm and checked the time on her watch. "Come on, we should go. There's nothing for us to do here, not until the building's been declared safe."

"What's CSI doing here?"

Catherine and Greg turned around with a start. Catherine's face lit up with a smile of pleasure and satisfaction alike. Fire investigator Schaffer was tall, broad and imposing, his wide smile as mesmerising as his dark eyes. Not only was he good on the eye but also the best in his field. His and Catherine's paths had crossed once before when they'd worked alongside each other investigating a warehouse fire that had killed a couple of vagrants, an insurance job gone terribly wrong. Needless to say Schaffer had made an impression on Catherine, and judging from the way he was staring at her now it looked like she had on him too.

"One of our friends lives here," Greg said, filling the silence, "_Lived_ here. We want to know what happened."

Schaffer's smile faded. He took his eyes off Catherine, fixing them onto Greg. "Are they okay?"

Greg shook his head. "She's at the hospital."

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"Smoke inhalation," Catherine explained, "but they think they got to her in time."

Schaffer turned back to Catherine, lifted a brow that said, "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend here?"

Catherine's smile widened. "Greg, meet Mike Schaffer – fire investigator with the LVFD. Mike, this is CSI Sanders."

The two men exchanged nods, then Schaffer turned back to Catherine. "You need to let me do my stuff, Catherine. As soon as I have something for you, as soon as I find evidence this fire was started deliberately, _if_ it was started deliberately, then you'll know."

"They found accelerant," Greg argued.

"No. They found gasoline at the scene, which may have acted as accelerant." He turned back to Catherine, fixed her with a disarming, but firm look. "As soon as I know, you'll know."

Catherine gave a nod. "You got my number?"

Schaffer's smile returned. "I'm sure I can find it somewhere."

"What about our friend's stuff?" Greg said. "When can we…take a look, see what we can salvage? There has got to be something left to recover, right?"

The look on Schaffer's face told Catherine he didn't think there'd be much worth saving. "You still work nights?" he asked her.

"Sure do."

"All right." He glanced at Greg as he spoke. "Then come back tomorrow – noon. I should be done with my prelim by then. Provided it is safe to do so and your friend's stuff isn't needed as evidence, you can take a look." And with that Shaffer placed his safety helmet squarely on his head, which he tipped to Catherine, and walked off toward the scene.

* * *

><p>"She's awake, but under heavy medication," Dr Winslade said as they walked. "She's not in any pain. She – or you – mustn't try to remove the non-rebreather mask. It's crucial she keeps it on – it's helping filter out all the chemicals, soot and impurities she breathed in during the fire. Talking <em>will<em> hurt, and until we have a clear picture we must limit further damage to her throat and larynx."

Grissom swallowed. "I understand."

They entered a room with a row of four curtained cubicles on either side. Some were open, others shut. Grissom could hear the quiet humming and beeping of equipment, voices talking and even laughing, and moans and groans of pain. His phone beeped in his pocket. Quickly he pulled it out, and ignoring his mother's concerned text put it on silent.

"We've cleaned her up a little," the doctor went on in a quiet voice, "but she's still quite…dirty, you know, from the fire. She'll be taken up to the ward after the X-rays and cleaned up better then."

Grissom nodded. "How long will she have to stay in hospital for?"

Dr Winslade stopped, and Grissom followed suit. "It will depend on recovery, of course, but a few days at the very least, a week maybe."

"As long as that?"

"I'm afraid so," the doctor said, and paused. "She's in curtain two."

An alarm sounded suddenly, coming from his left, followed by the loud, steady voice of a nurse declaring respiratory arrest and calling for the crash cart. Grissom's heart stopped. Without a word Doctor Winslade set off at a run, entering a cubicle a little further ahead. Filled with sudden panic Grissom followed her. He stopped and watched helplessly the doctor and nurse attend to their patient, his heartbeat returning to a more sedate rhythm as he came to the realisation that they weren't treating Sara. A nurse rushed past him, pushing the crash cart, and he stepped aside.

When the curtain was pulled shut in front of him, he turned around and scanned the area for curtain two. He took a breath, and bracing himself for what he knew he would find, slowly pried the curtain open. Immediately, he felt a rush of relief course through him, his agitation and anxiety stilling for seeing her at last. Wearing her usual sleepwear of shorts and tank top, she looked almost peaceful as she slept.

The hospital sheet hung loose, barely covering her legs. At the foot of the bed in a clear plastic bag was her robe, the pink one he'd gifted her for her last birthday. Next to it in a second clear plastic bag was one tan boot, the other presumably lost during the rescue. Both items were covered in black dust particles, soot he realised sadly, a stark reminder at how close she'd come to not making it.

She'd been wearing the boots that morning for their walk with Hank. He remembered very clearly as afterwards she'd tiredly collapsed onto the couch before slowly unlacing and taking them off. He'd picked them up for her, placing them by the door as per her habit, ready for the next time. He could see it happen now, in his mind's eye, her being woken up disoriented and groggy from sleep by the acrid smell of smoke seeping under the door into her apartment, or by the shrill blare of the smoke alarm, or both?

Was she scared? Panicked? Or did she think it a small fire, one that necessitated evacuation but nothing overly worrying? Automatically she would have grabbed her robe from the end of the bed and slipped it on over her pyjamas, shoved her bare feet in her boots by the front door and left the apartment, in her dazed state forgetting to check whether the handle could be hot. Fresh tears appeared, prickling at his eyes.

Gingerly he went into the cubicle, letting the curtain fall in place behind him, walked up to the bed and watched her, his vision blurred. He'd come so very close to losing her, and it was only just fully sinking in. Blowing a deep, steadying breath, he lifted his hand toward her before withdrawing it shyly. She looked very pale underneath the soot smears, her skin with the remnant of a blue tinge, not the cherry-red he had been expecting.

He could see some attempt had been made at cleaning the soot from her face and eyes. They were closed, her breathing regular and controlled by the machine. The mask covered her mouth and nose, and he was grateful she hadn't needed intubating. Electrodes attached to her chest linked her to monitors that recorded her vital signs, red and green lights and lines at once worrying and comforting. Fluids and medication were fed through an IV drip into her left arm.

His hand lifted again, drawn to her, and gently pushed strands of dirty hair away from her face. He watched her tenderly for a long moment before he leaned over, softly pressing his lips to her forehead and closing his eyes. Her skin, her hair, the bed sheet, all smelled of smoke and he knew that smell would stay in his nostrils a long time. When he pulled back from her, her eyes were open. They were blurry and unfocused, bloodshot, but open and watching him.

"Oh, Sara, sweetheart," he gasped, his eyes filling with tears again, his lips pulling into a small smile she didn't – couldn't – return.

She made a sound, a low gurgling moan, and he realised she was trying to talk.

"Honey, it's okay," he soothed quietly. "It's okay. You're in the hospital. You're safe." He forced more enthusiasm in his tone. "Please don't try to talk."

She blinked, the look in her eyes suddenly probing, inquiring.

He sighed. "You're suffering from smoke inhalation," he said. "But they're dealing with it, okay?"

Weakly she moved her head, in acquiescence maybe, then lifted her injured right hand off the bed.

He swallowed before he cleared the emotion from his voice. "You burned the inside of your hand," he said, knowing she could probably see the bandage but not feel any pain. "It's not as bad as it looks. The doctor said it will heal and that you'll regain full function."

Her eyes drifted shut, before she forced them open again.

"Don't fight it," he said. "Rest is good. Soon they're going to take you for an X-ray, check on your lungs, and then they'll move you to a ward. I won't be able to stay, I'm afraid. But I'll be back in the morning."

Her eyes once again shutting, Sara managed a weak nod. Grissom's eyes lowered to her chest, and how little it seemed to move as she breathed. He picked up her hand, her good hand, and minding the IV line brought it to his face, to his lips while he closed his eyes, the rush of love that flooded him overwhelming in its intensity. Sara's fingers moved inside his loose grasp, brushing over his mouth, and he pressed his lips to them. He'd never felt such love and tenderness for another human being before, such an instinctive need to protect. Protect _her_.

Until that very moment, he hadn't known he was capable of feeling so much. When he reopened his eyes hers were still closed, the effort to keep them open and fight the drug-induced drowsiness too great. Gently he pressed his lips to her hand again and lowered it back to the bed, carefully placing it over her stomach. He would go now. He needed to be at work. He needed to put his professional mask on, and better than he'd done with Brass earlier. He needed to organise shift and his team, or they would start to wonder.

He turned to the foot of the bed and picked up the plastic bag containing her robe. He'd take it to the dry cleaners on his way back to the hospital in the morning. He also made a mental note to pack the toiletries, pyjamas and a few spare clothes she kept at his place. She would need them here. Then he turned back to her and bent down, gently pressing his lips to her forehead and keeping them there.

"I'll come back as soon as I can," he said, as finally he pulled back.

"Don't worry, Sir. She's in good hands."

The voice startled him, and he whipped his body back from the bed and around. A nurse he hadn't heard come in was watching him with a wistful smile on her face. Clipboard in hand, she moved over to the monitor and checked the readings she then diligently wrote down onto Sara's chart. After watching her work for a moment, he looked back at Sara. He was still reluctant to go and leave her alone in the hospital. What if the X-ray showed irreparable damage to her lungs, he couldn't help thinking? What if there were complications, decisions that needed taking?

"Have you left your contact details with the main desk?" she asked, clearly sensing his hesitation.

"Yes," he said categorically, "I have."

"Then, they'll now where to find you if there's any change to her condition."

Grissom sighed and nodded his head, then looked over at Sara again. There was nothing he could do to help her here, but there was a lot he could do at the lab, and he was sure she would want him to go back to work and find out how and why the fire got started. How badly was her apartment damaged, he wondered now? It had looked bad on TV, but how bad? Had she lost everything? And what about the victim, Sara's neighbour, who hadn't made it?

It was clear to him then what he needed to do. What Sara would want him to do. He took in a breath he let out slowly, then clutching her bagged robe to his chest finally pulled himself away.


	4. Chapter 4

Grissom slipped his T-shirt off over his head and splashed water on his face. He still felt unnerved and edgy. The smell of smoke was everywhere. It wouldn't leave him. It was on him, in his hair and clothes, but also in him, in his nose, his mouth, his mind. He almost felt sick with it. A shower would have been better, but he was already so late for shift. A quick wash would have to do.

He knew Catherine would have covered for him – the board showed Nick, Greg and Warrick all out some place or other – but he didn't want his tardiness to be a talking point at the lab and arouse suspicion. Hodges had been quite obvious, openly staring when he'd trudged past his lab earlier. Not that he owed anyone an explanation, least of all Hodges, but still.

He grabbed a fresh towel to dry himself with, then hurriedly unzipped his bag, taking out the spare set of clothes he kept in the trunk of his car, and got changed. Wearing paint-spattered jeans, sneakers and a UCLA T-shirt made him feel like Grissom the man on his day off, not Grissom supervisor of the night shift. He felt too exposed, too vulnerable. Tonight as well as his mask, he would need his armour.

"Any reasons you're not picking up your calls?"

Catherine's tone wasn't accusatory, but rather soft and teasing. Grissom frowned in puzzlement, then looked up sharply from buttoning up his shirt and reached for his cell from the shelf inside his locker. One quick look told him he'd missed plenty of calls, but thankfully none from the hospital. He turned the sound back on, then calmly placed the phone back on the shelf. You can do this, he thought. "I'm sorry, Catherine. I switched my phone to silent when I was at the hospital."

Catherine gave him a soft smile. "You've been with Sara all this time?"

Playing it cool, Grissom lowered his eyes back to his shirt. He was going to tuck it into his pants when he stopped. "You mind?" he asked, glancing up.

Catherine pulled a face that seemed to say, "It's not anything I've not seen before", but turned around nevertheless.

Grissom lowered his pants, then tucked his shirt in fully. "No," he replied to her original question while he finished doing himself up, and with a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was done Catherine turned back around. "I went round to her apartment building." David had been loading the fire victim's body into the coroner's truck when he'd arrived, and it had sadly brought everything home again.

Catherine's brow rose with surprise. "You went to the scene?"

"The scene is Sara's home, Catherine. Of course I went."

He had needed to see for himself the extent of the damage. The fire was out, but the heat emanating from the rubble was still substantial. Water and foam dripped everywhere. Despite his pleading he'd not been granted access – for obvious safety reasons – so he'd borrowed a helmet and had walked round the perimeter of the building. Sara's apartment was at the back, and from what he could see still standing.

How much could be salvaged was another matter. He knew from experience that whatever the fire hadn't destroyed, the water, foam and smoke would have. Sara's life was in that apartment, and it had broken his heart to see it gone up in smoke. How would he tell her? How would she react? How could he tell Sara that she'd lost everything?

Catherine was watching him with narrowed eyes, and he regretted his outburst. He'd have to keep his temper and anger in check, his worry too. He'd have to do better that that, he thought, or the cat would be out of the bag. To give himself time, he rummaged inside his bag for a clean pair of socks. Finding none, he picked up the dirty ones from the floor.

"I'm sorry, Cath," he said, mustering a sheepish smile. "I shouldn't have snapped. It's just…" He shrugged, faked a levity he was far from feeling to lighten the tone, "you know how I hate to be late to my own shifts."

Her face softening with a smile, Catherine accepted his apology with a nod of the head. "How's Sara?"

He sat down on the bench and sighed before pulling his socks on his feet. "Still the same, as far as I know." He made sure to keep his eyes averted to what he was doing to hide his feelings and kept his tone even as he spoke. "She came to briefly while I was there." He looked up, met Catherine's concerned gaze, "They're watching her closely for CO poisoning. They were taking her for X-rays to check on her lungs when I left. They won't know more until morning."

Catherine nodded gravely. "Mike Schaffer's investigating the fire―"

"I know. I spoke with him."

"So, what did he say?"

"Very little. He was having a good dig around, but the light wasn't good."

"Did he say the fire was started deliberately?"

"He's keeping an open mind."

Catherine let out a long-suffering breath. "Greg and I are meeting him tomorrow. He said he'd take us to Sara's apartment. See if there's anything of hers we can save, you know, clothes we can wash, books, her car keys, laptop…whatever we can find. I know of this good fire and smoke restoration company…" Her voice drifted off and she looked at Grissom with a tender smile.

Grissom nodded, then busied himself with his shoes to hide his emotion. He was deeply touched, deeply grateful for hers and Greg's care and consideration. Catherine was always so pragmatic, so good in a crisis. His eyes widened suddenly. What if Catherine and Greg found the stuff he kept at Sara's place during their search?

There wasn't much, and nothing of value, a few items of clothing and toiletries and Hank's stuff, but all the same. Would it be enough to give the game away, he wondered? And then he remembered. Sara kept a framed photograph of Hank and him by her bedside. She'd taken the photo when they'd gone hiking in Red Rock Canyon early on in their relationship. That day had meant so much to both of them.

He stood and began tidying his dirty clothes inside the bag, and the bag inside his locker. "What time did Schaffer say to meet him?"

"Noon. Why?"

"I'll meet you there." He picked up his cell from the shelf, closed his locker door and made for the door, hoping to put an end to the conversation. "I'll be in my office catching up on paperwork if you need me."

He was rounding the corner into his office when he checked his phone again and realised he'd missed another text from his mother. _I hope your friend is okay_, he read. _I saw the fire on the news. It looked bad. Hank is fine but unsettled._ _And no, he doesn't need to pee. How are you doing?_

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Could Hank have sensed something was wrong with Sara, he wondered? He felt bad for forgetting to text his mother back after he'd left the hospital. He checked the time; 11.30 pm, but he knew Betty would still be awake, waiting for news. He pressed reply and composed his message. His texting was slow, but right then it was the only way he could put her mind at rest.

_Sorry I didn't reply sooner. Thank you for your concern. Sara is doing okay. She's stable. I'll go visit her tomorrow after shift before I come pick up Hank. _He paused, then added, _Sleep well, _before he pressed send.

The lack of assignment slips on his desk was a relief, and he reached for the top file on his pile. Maybe losing himself in mindless paperwork would take his mind off thinking and worrying about Sara. It didn't work. After an hour he went round the lab to do his checks, then returned to more paperwork, long overdue staff evaluations this time. When some time later his phone rang he jumped on it, only to see _Morgue_ flash on the screen. He connected the call.

"Hi, Grissom," David Phillips said. "You said to call when the victim from the fire was ready? Well, she is."

Grissom was already on his feet. "I'm on my way."

He pocketed his cell and made his way to the morgue. There, he put on a blue lab coat and joined David at the stainless steel table. The female body exhibited full thickness burns with brown leathery skin and lay in a boxer-like body posture of flexed elbows and knees and clenched fists. It looked like she was shielding her face from an attacker, but Grissom knew better than to infer that.

Heat had caused for her body tissues and muscle to shrink due to dehydration. The smell of burnt flesh was overpowering, and it took all his resolve and years of experience not to walk out of the room. All he kept thinking as he stared at the body was that it could be Sara lying there instead of her neighbour. He took a breath and tried hard to put that picture out of his mind.

"Any news on Sara?" David asked, his concern undisguised, as he glanced toward Grissom.

Grissom gave his standard answer, the same he'd first given Catherine and everyone else that had asked since.

Looking grave, David nodded his head then fell silent, presumably thinking about Sara and the ordeal she'd just been through. "Are they watching for CO and cyanide poisoning?" he asked, "I heard there was gasoline at the scene too. Sometimes reactions are delayed."

"I know," Grissom replied quietly, "And they are."

David gave another nod, seemingly appeased by Grissom's replies.

"No Doc tonight?" Grissom asked, hoping that would be clue enough to get back to the topic at hand. He slipped his glasses on and looked at the body in more detail.

"He's off. He's taken Judith to see Céline. I―I haven't told him about the fire. I didn't want to spoil his…evening."

His lips twisting in a sardonic smile, Grissom looked up at David over the top of his glasses.

David's smile was wide and unabashed. "I know. I know. It's all my fault. But believe me, she's well worth it." He averted his eyes briefly, hesitantly, before he raised them again and stared at Grissom unwaveringly. "You ought to go. The show's run is ending in December. Take a lady friend with you. As I said, it's well worth it."

Could David have guessed, he wondered suddenly? Was the use of 'lady friend' a subtle way for David to let him know he knew? Grissom quickly lowered his eyes back to the body. "I'll take your word for it, David," he said, sternly enough to get David to look sheepish and refocus on the body. "So, what can you tell me?"

"The vic should be thirty-five-year-old Heather Clarke," David replied after a pause. "Visual positive ID will be hard to confirm due to the extent of the burns so I'll try to extract some DNA – maybe from the teeth, or bone marrow. Total body radiographs showed nothing I wouldn't expect in the circumstance."

"COD?" Death due to thermal injuries – smoke inhalation, burns or cardiac arrest when the pain got too much – was the obvious choice, but it wouldn't be the first time a fire had been started to cover up something more sinister.

David glanced at Grissom with surprise. "Any reasons to think the fire didn't kill her?"

"Aside from gasoline present at the scene, no," Grissom replied rather curtly.

David stared at Grissom with a frown before he averted his eyes back to the body. "I'll make sure to be thorough," he said in an even tone, and Grissom regretted his shortness. "From what I heard, you know, when we were recovering the body," David went on quietly, "fire department thought the fire had started in the vic's apartment kitchen. Gas cooker was on, burnt pan on the stove. The vic was found on the floor near the front door."

Grissom looked up, suddenly interested. Could the fire have started accidentally after all?"

"That's all I heard, I'm afraid," David added with an apologetic lift of his shoulder, "We didn't hang about."

Grissom nodded.

"I cut off what clothing I could from the body. It's in the bag, on the table."

Grissom looked over to where David was indicating. "Thank you. I'll take it up to Trace." He removed his glasses and turned back to David. "Could you email me copies of the photos you took at the scene?"

David frowned. "I emailed them to you as soon as I uploaded them on the computer."

"Oh."

"Didn't you get them?"

Grissom's mouth open then shut hesitantly. "I must have done. I―I haven't checked my email in a while." To cover his lapse, he moved over to the table and picked up the evidence bag to take to Trace.

There was a pause. "I saw her car in the lot," David then said in a soft voice. "It was intact, so that's something."

It would seem Sara was on David's mind too. With a sigh, Grissom turned back to the assistant coroner and nodded his head, even tried a smile. "Thanks, David."

As soon as he was back in his office, Grissom printed the pictures David had emailed him and studied them at length. Some showed close-ups of the victim's body, others included what was left of the apartment surrounding it, but none encompassed the kitchen or gave any clues as to explain what had happened. Homicide, or accidental death? Schaffer was keeping an open mind, and so was he.

Grissom was packing away for the night, eager to leave so he could pop by the hospital before he went to his mother to fetch Hank, when he heard a knock on his door. Nick, Warrick and Greg stepped into his office. Immediately Grissom's gaze zoomed in on the clear plastic bag Greg was holding.

"Griss, we're going to Frank's for breakfast," Nick said. "Want to come?"

Grissom paused. "I―I can't. I've somewhere to be." And then as an afterthought, "But thank you."

"Sure?" Warrick tried.

Mustering a smile, Grissom nodded his head. "I'm…expected at my mother's, but some other time maybe."

"All right."

The trio was turning on their heels when Grissom called, "Greg, can I have a word?"

Greg hesitated, but stopped in his tracks. "You go on ahead," he told Nick and Warrick who turned around, "I'll meet you there."

"What's this?" Grissom asked, keeping his tone neutral as he motioned toward the bag in Greg's hand. "If it's evidence…"

"Oh, no," Greg said, lifting the bag up in Grissom's eye line. "It's Sara's boot. Well, I think it is anyway. I found it in her car lot, last night." His eyes lowered to the bag. "I―I kept it for her. Thought I'd clean it up. I know there's only one, but…" His voice choked up, then faded and he stopped talking.

Grissom's eyes averted. Once again, Greg's consideration toward Sara touched him deeply. "You know what, Greg?" he found himself saying, and the young CSI looked up. "I'm pretty sure I remember seeing a similar boot at the hospital, bagged at the end of her bed in the ER."

Greg's face lit up. "Thanks Grissom. Nick and I are going to visit her this afternoon; I'll pick it up then. Warrick called Tina who checked for us. She's had a good night apparently. Well, all things considered."

Grissom nodded. He knew all that of course, he'd rung the hospital himself, but it was nice of Greg to share what he knew with him. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you," he said quietly.

Greg watched Grissom with surprise while the latter stared back, confident his mask was firmly in place.

"Enjoy your breakfast," he then said, and stepped round his desk, headed out.

All in all he felt he'd given quite a good performance.


	5. Chapter 5

Grissom pushed the door open and went in, directly making his way to Sara's bedside. The nurse at the station had warned him she'd still be sleeping, and she was, much to his disappointment. The head of the bed was raised in a thirty degree angle, presumably to facilitate breathing. Machines still helped control that, her fluid intake and medication too, but he was pleased to see that she had regained some colour.

This time he didn't hesitate and immediately leaned down for a kiss on the forehead. As they had the previous night, his lips lingered on her skin, but now he took in a long satisfying breath and filled himself with her scent. She had been cleaned up and helped into a hospital gown, the smell of smoke gone now, replaced by good old antiseptic soap.

He didn't know how quickly Sara would be allowed up on her feet and able to take a shower, but just in case he'd swung by his condo on the way over to collect the few clothes and toiletries she kept there, hurriedly packing everything into a travel bag. She had a habit of walking barefoot around the house, but he'd found a pair of espadrilles in the closet and had brought those too.

As instructed, he set the bag on the overbed table pushed against the wall. He'd promised the nurse he wouldn't stay long, and he intended to keep his word. Regardless he pulled up a chair and picked up her good hand, squeezing it softly as he sat down. He'd just be a minute. Just long enough to say hello, even if she didn't wake up.

Closing his eyes, he let out a long, tired breath, and tried to empty his mind of thoughts and worries. He'd been sitting by her side, resting, for a few minutes when he felt Sara's hand move inside his. A smile forming on his lips, he looked up and opened his eyes. She was watching him.

"Hey," he said softly, his smile widening with pleasure as he pushed to his feet.

Sara blinked, then tried to talk, but he couldn't make out what she said. Weakly, she pulled her hand out of his and lifted it to her face, as if wanting to pull the breathing mask off her mouth.

"No," he said, his hand moving to still hers. "You must keep it on."

Sara lowered her hand back down. "Tired," she said between two breaths.

"It's normal you should feel tired," he replied softly. "You've been through quite an ordeal."

She shook her head weakly. "You," she said, and paused. "You look tired."

"Don't you worry about me," he said, a smile of disbelief twisting his mouth. "I'm fine."

Sara started at him at length, her eyes soft and dreamy, and he reached up to stroke her face. "When can I go home?" she asked, closing her eyes as she leaned into his touch. Her words were low, raspy whispers through the mask but he made them out all right.

Her customary impatience brought his smile back. "Not for a few days," he replied softly, before it struck him what exactly she'd meant by home. His smile faded. With a swallow, he flicked his gaze away, then took in a breath and met her questioning eyes. "I'm sorry, love," he said, knowing hiding the truth from her would serve no purpose, "but it looks like the fire did a lot of damage to the front of the building, I'm afraid – structural damage. The back doesn't look as bad, but it's hard to tell from the outside. I'm going over later, see what it's really like." See what I can salvage, he thought, but didn't say. "I'm sorry."

Sara nodded her head, then leaned it back against the pillow and looked away but not before he noticed the tears shimmering in her eyes.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "It's going to be okay," he said, in a fake bright voice that faded piteously. "You can come stay with me and Hank." He stroked his hand down the side of her face. "Honey, all that matters is that you made it out alive."

Her head snapped round toward him, tearful eyes suddenly wide and probing, and he immediately regretted his turn of phrase. She knew him too well. Still, he wouldn't lie to her. He tried to conceal his growing emotion, but it came through nevertheless in his voice and in his eyes.

"There was one fatality," he said, and cleared his throat, "a woman who lived on the ground floor. Apartment 1B."

Sara's eyes lost their focus, then shut, releasing a tear that slipped down to her nose, and he knew that just like he had done when Brass had told him the news she was racking her brain for a face or a name. Or maybe she was just thinking that she was lucky she'd made it out alive when her neighbour hadn't. With a sigh, he pulled the chair up closer to the bed and took up his seat again.

"It looks like a kitchen fire," he said in a low voice, and she refocused her attention on him, "a tragic accident. I'm meeting with the fire investigator later. We'll see what he's got to say."

Sara reached out her hand over toward him, and hoping she couldn't see the shine of tears in his eyes he sat forward in the chair and took it. "You okay?" she asked through the mask.

"Sure," he replied, forcing a smile as he met her gaze. Her eyes became probing, pleading, seeing straight through him, and with a long fraught sigh he dropped the pretence. His eyes filled again. He pinched his lips, lowered his gaze to their joined hands. "A little shaken," he admitted finally in a wobbly voice, and glanced up. "You scared me, Sara. When Brass called me, I…" his words died, and he brought their hands up to his face. "I thought I'd lost you."

Sara nodded. Then she turned her hand in his and brushed it to his face. "But you didn't," her eyes said, and slowly he nodded his head. They stared at each other for a moment without speaking before Sara asked, "You got to finish your painting?"

Grissom frowned and, when it dawned on him what she'd said, burst out laughing. "Yes, I did. Just about. And I did a good job of it too, if I may say so."

Sara's gaze was soft and loving. "You got paint in your hair."

Before Grissom could reply, the door opened. Startled, he let go of Sara's hand and quickly pushed to his feet. Greg had said he and Nick would visit in the afternoon, but he wouldn't put it past Catherine to talk her way into the room outside visiting hours. Sara slowly turned her head toward the door, and he waited a beat before doing the same. A doctor in a white blouse was standing at the end of the bed, watching them. He was holding charts and a large white envelope.

"It's not against hospital policy to hold hands," he said pleasantly, his eyes flicking between the two of them. "In fact, I positively encourage it – inside visiting hours of course."

Grissom and Sara shared a look. "I'm sorry," Grissom said apologetically. "It's only a short visit. I―I just…" he turned toward Sara and smiled tenderly, "I just…" needed to see her, he almost said, but instead settled for, "dropped off some stuff."

The doctor nodded, then without skipping a beat turned to Sara. "Sara, do you remember me?"

Sara shook her head.

"That's all right. You were pretty out of it when we met. I'm Doctor Alvarez, specialist in respiratory medicine. I'm glad to see you awake and alert. How's your chest feeling this morning?"

"It's tight, heavy," Sara replied through the mask, and paused to take a breath. "But better."

"Painful?"

After hesitating briefly, Sara gave her head a shake.

"Sure?"

Sara looked at Grissom from the corner of her eyes. "A little," she admitted.

"Show me."

Without looking at Grissom, Sara lifted her hand and rubbed the left side of her chest.

"Any problems with mental acuity," the doctor then asked Grissom.

Grissom frowned. "No," he replied, turning to smile at Sara. "She's all there."

"Good." The doctor nodded, wrote something down on his chart. Then he checked the readings on the monitor, the pulse oximeter and nonrebreather mask, made more notes.

"What did the X-ray show?" Grissom asked.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Doctor Alvarez replied, looking over his shoulder. "Which in itself doesn't mean much. We'll do a repeat test tomorrow to determine if delayed lung injury is occurring. I'm happy with the way Sara is responding to treatment so far."

"And the pain in her chest?"

The doctor shrugged. "There could be a number of reasons. We'll watch her, see if it gets worse."

"Pulmonary oedema?" Grissom asked.

Doctor Alvarez' eyes moved over to Sara who was following the conversation with intent. "It's a common complication of inhalation injuries, but we're looking out for it."

"And her blood tests? Any signs of CO poisoning?"

Dr Alvarez sighed. "Carboxyhaemoglobin levels came back 20 percent. But that was last night. As I said, so far Sara is responding well to the standard oxygen therapy, so we'll carry on as we've been doing."

Grissom nodded his head and turned toward Sara. He reached for her hand and squeezed it warmly.

"Alright," the doctor said in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. "Just time to say goodbye and I want you out of here."

Grissom nodded, then turned back to Sara and smiled sheepishly.

"Sara," Doctor Alvarez went on, "I'll come back shortly. We'll get you sitting up and moving and do a few tests, all right?"

Sara gave a nod and the doctor turned on his heels, but not before he'd given Grissom a meaningful look.

"The guys said they'd come this afternoon," Grissom said, when the door had closed on the doctor. "They've…been thinking of you. A lot. Well, everyone at the lab has, and…so I'm going to make myself scarce and come back when the coast is clear. Okay?"

Sara watched him at length before she nodded her head quietly, resignedly. "Tell Hank I miss him."

Grissom brought his hand up to her face and cupped her cheek. "It won't be long until you come out."

Sara nodded her head. She was looking tired now, tired and sad. He was loath to leave her again, but what choice did he have?

"I'll come back when I can," he said, and kissed her cheek.

When he got to his mother, Hank was waiting behind the door, yelping and whining. He rang the bell, and the door opened almost immediately. Hank rushed to him, his tail beating wildly as he let out a happy bark, and crouching down Grissom took a moment to return the dog's affectionate welcome.

"Sara's okay," he told him, laughing when Hank licked his face. "She misses you too."

When he straightened back up, Betty was waiting, watching him intently with a thoughtful expression on her face. He leaned over to kiss her cheek, and she waved him in.

"I'm not staying," he signed as he took a step over the threshold, and sighed on noticing she'd set breakfast for one on the table.

"I thought I'd make you breakfast," Betty signed, looking somewhat discomfited. "When's the last time you ate?"

Grissom pulled a face and lifted his hands to reply. "A late breakfast with Sara the previous day," he almost signed, but then thought better of it. His shrug was all the answer his mother needed to take his arm and pull him fully into the room. He closed the door behind him, then toed off his shoes and with Hank close on his heels followed his mother to the kitchen.

"Thanks for minding Hank," he signed before reaching his hand down to pet Hank.

Betty batted her hand in front of her, dismissing his words of thanks. Then gratefully accepting the cup of coffee she thrust into his hands, Grissom took a seat at the table and watched as she turned the heat on under a skillet at the ready on the stove and reached into the fridge. Bacon and eggs came out, and suddenly he felt very hungry indeed.

"How's Sara?" Betty signed, as he took a cautious first sip of his coffee.

After setting his cup down, Grissom raised his hands. "She was awake and doing much better. She's going to have to stay into hospital for a few days for monitoring, but so far so good."

Betty's wide smile spoke volume as to what she thought. She patted his shoulder warmly, then after placing rashers of bacon into the skillet turned to ask if Sara's family was with her. Grissom's eyes lowered uncertainly, before he decided to be honest with her. He wasn't ready to tell his mother about the relationship yet, but he wouldn't lie about it if she asked. Betty put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and sat down at the table across from him.

"Her father passed away," he signed at last, "And she and her mother are estranged."

Betty's expression saddened before it brightened up again. "Would you like me to sit with her while you rest? That way she wouldn't be alone. I don't mind," she added, giving her son a bright smile. "On the contrary, I'd like to meet her. In fact, I'd like to meet all your friends."

Grissom's mouth opened, then shut, and he lowered his gaze. And how would that work, he wondered? The smell of bacon filled the room, titillating his nostrils. Nose twitching, Hank stood up and shook himself before moving to sit in front of the stove. Picking up his cup, Grissom took a sip of coffee to disguise his surprise – or was it unease? – at his mother's offer and then set his cup back down slowly.

"Thank you," he signed slowly, and groped for his next words. "It's very…thoughtful of you. But Sara won't be alone. She has a lot of friends desperate to see her."

Betty nodded. Her eyes were soft and knowing. "And she has you?"

He smiled. "Yes," he admitted finally. "She has me."

Betty's face lit up with pleasure as she stared at him, seemingly waiting for him to continue, but the bacon was sizzling on the stove and Grissom motioned towards it. Acknowledging his relationship with Sara was one thing, going into detail another. As for the two of them meeting, he couldn't imagine it. A happy twinkle in her eyes, Betty stood up and tended to his and Hank's breakfast.

Grissom pulled up in the car lot of Sara's apartment building at exactly 11.45 am and parked next to her Prius. He thought he'd be early, and he was, but evidently not early enough. Catherine and Greg's cars were already there, as was Schaffer's fire investigation truck. With a sigh, he killed the engine, got out and made a mental note to move the Prius to a safer location. Quickly he opened the trunk and took out the empty cardboard box and sports bag he'd brought along.

He turned toward the building and sighed. In the daylight, it looked so much worse than it had the night before. The sun shone high and bright overhead, further enhancing its stark desolation. Most of the windows were dark holes in a blackened shell. More of the roof had collapsed, or been torn down before it did. Charred furniture, appliances and furnishings lay in a haphazard pile, discarded during the damping down efforts.

Juggling the box and bag, he locked the car and hurried over to the main entrance. Catherine and Mike Schaffer stood there in matching hard hats, deep in conversation. His heart sank.

Greg was nowhere to be seen.


	6. Chapter 6

As Grissom closed the distance, Catherine and Schaffer stopped talking and turned toward him. "Oh, good," Catherine said, as Grissom and Schaffer exchanged nods of greeting, "You came prepared."

Grissom glanced down at the box under his arm and nodded. "Where's Greg?" he asked, keeping his tone business-like.

"He's gone on up ahead," Catherine replied. "He was already waiting when I got here. He couldn't wait to go up, see how bad the damage is. I told him we'd do the work bit and then meet him there."

Keeping his feelings of frustration under wraps, Grissom gave a nod. "You been here long?" he asked, vainly trying to ascertain how much of the apartment Greg was likely to have searched already.

"Five minutes?"

Grissom's eyes averted to the entrance lobby beyond Catherine as he considered his options. Suddenly he felt very tired, physically tired because he hadn't slept a wink in twenty-four hours, but also emotionally exhausted. All this pretence and having to watch his step every minute of the day was draining. He just wanted for this fire never to have started. He just wanted for everything to be like it was before. He just wanted to be home with Sara, share breakfast, and then take Hank on a leisurely walk around the park before going to bed.

"You okay?" Catherine asked.

Grissom refocused his eyes on her. "Yeah. I'm just tired."

Catherine offered him a warm smile. "Mike was telling me that Sara's apartment suffered smoke and water damage, but that the fire missed most of it. Hopefully, there's plenty we can recover for her."

Grissom nodded, turned to Schaffer. "Will the building need to be knocked down?"

"It's not for me to say," Schaffer replied, "but from experience I'd say yes."

Grissom's experience sadly told him the same thing.

"I've established how the fire got started," Schaffer said. "Want to come and take a look?"

Normally Grissom would have been there like a shot, but today he hesitated. His eyes flicked over to the inside the building again before he grudgingly nodded his head at Schaffer. If Greg had found the framed photograph of him and Hank, he thought, then so be it.

"You brought a hat?" Schaffer asked and when Grissom shook his head offered his. "And watch your step," he added as the trio made their way inside the lobby.

Grissom set the cardboard box down on the ground and the sports bag inside it and placed the hat on his head. Then with a forlorn look in the direction of the staircase he followed Schaffer and Catherine through the lobby, past the elevator and half way down the corridor to apartment 1B. The floor was still damp underfoot, charred debris littering their path. On either side of the corridor doors were open wide, or off their hinges, the apartments' interiors burnt and blackened messes.

The victim's apartment was the same as Sara's, but facing the opposite way. Grissom stopped in the middle of the living space and did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree swivel on his heels, taking in the whole of the room. He turned around and positioned the victim just as David Phillips' scene photos had captured her, lying prone behind the door, trying to escape what must have been a blazing inferno.

Grissom looked up and scanned his gaze around. Catherine and Schaffer stood in what used to be the kitchen and Grissom carefully picked his way over. The fire there had burnt a hole through the ceiling, exposing burnt-out rafters, pipes and electrical cables which hung limply at head height. Judging by the tell-tale hourglass burn pattern on the wall, Grissom would guess he was staring at the point of origin.

"The fire started here," Schaffer said, needlessly, as the three of them stood shoulder to shoulder in the small kitchen. "Something that was cooking on the stove caught fire. The fire spread to the hood, up to the ceiling, burning everything in its path and quickly spreading to the rest of the apartment and then the apartment above."

Grissom's eyes narrowed distrustfully."Did the victim call 911?"

"No. The man in apartment 1A did. The call was logged in at 18.04."

Grissom's puzzlement intensified. "Any evidence the vic tried to put the fire out herself?"

Schaffer shook his head. "There's no evidence she did, but it doesn't mean she didn't. Why do you ask?"

Grissom shrugged. "I find it strange, that's all. I mean, all the apartments are fitted with standard smoke detectors. It would have gone off, alerting the victim even before the pan fully caught fire. She would have had time to call 911."

"Unless she was in the shower," Catherine chipped in, "Or taking a nap. Just like Sara was."

_Or incapacitated in some way_, Grissom reasoned. Drunk? Drugged? The autopsy would tell them.

"The victim was found by the door," Schaffer said. "Presumably the fire or smoke overcame her before she could do anything, let along escape."

Grissom's twist of the mouth was sceptical. "I was told you found gasoline at the scene, and yet I don't see any evidence of it."

"That's because the two two-gallon plastic canisters we recovered were found in the apartment directly above."

Grissom looked up abruptly and stared through the hole._ That's the apartment across the landing from Sara's_, he thought with a frown. _No wonder she was overcome by smoke so quickly._

"I think they were just being stored there," Schaffer went on, "and caught fire independently. After that, the blaze just took hold and spread very rapidly."

Grissom sighed. "So you're ruling out arson."

"I'm not ruling out anything. I'm just telling you my findings as they are now. It's going to take a few weeks for all the tests to come back."

Grissom nodded, shared a look with Catherine. "Thanks, Mike," Catherine said, patting her hand to Schaffer's arm. "I appreciate the courtesy."

Schaffer showed her a row of white pearly teeth. "Don't mention it."

Catherine paused, glanced at Grissom meaningfully and the latter took his cue. It was time to see what Greg was up to. He retraced his steps to the lobby, picked up his box and bag and trudged his way up to the next floor. As he reached the door to the landing he stopped and looked around; this must be where Sara had made it to before she'd collapsed and was rescued.

Pushing his pain and heartache aside, he opened the door and followed in reverse the escape route Sara would have taken. The noxious effect of the smoke would be filling her airways and poisoning her lungs, altering her senses and making her dizzy and confused. She would have been coughing and choking as she fought for every shallow breath she took. Did she think she was going to die?

"Oh, if only I'd stayed with her rather than gone to my mother's," he cursed silently, "maybe now she wouldn't be lying in that hospital bed."

Sara's apartment door was open wide, the windows too, the light breeze blowing against the open drapes. Soot particles swirled in the shaft of sunlight. The bedroom door was closed. The whole of the living space and what he could see of the kitchen was covered in an oily greyish residue, but was otherwise untouched by the fire itself. Grissom's gaze settled on Greg, crouched down level with Sara's desk.

Totally engrossed on his study of Sara's police scanner, the young CSI didn't hear Grissom come in. Next to the scanner was Sara's closed laptop and Grissom was relieved to see it intact. Wearing latex gloves and CSI coveralls Greg was certainly looking the part, and Grissom wondered whether he'd already put his observation skills to good use and uncovered his relationship with Sara.

Greg straightened up suddenly and turned toward him. "It's her scanner," he stated sadly.

Grissom nodded, and watched as Greg carefully picked the scanner up and placed it in a cardboard box on the floor by his feet. He didn't have the heart to tell the young CSI that Sara didn't listen to it any more. Then Greg packed the laptop, carefully opened the desk drawer, finding the charger cable which he stowed in the box too.

"It's heart-breaking, isn't it?" Greg said, and too choked up for words Grissom could only nod his head in reply. Quickly, he flicked his gaze away. "What do you think she's going to want recovering first?" Greg then asked.

"I don't know," Grissom said, finding his voice at last. Pursing his face, he nodded at the bookcase behind Greg. Some of her books were old and battered but all were well read and very much treasured. "You could go through her books, maybe?"

Greg nodded his head and turned on his heels. "Good idea."

A feeling of relief washed over Grissom at the fact that Greg was acting as normal, and not as though he'd found the compromising photograph. "I'm going to look for her purse," he said. "Her ID, phone and car keys should be in it. I thought we could move her car to the lab."

Greg turned to motion over toward the counter. "It's over there. I already checked. Everything's in it."

Grissom nodded, moved over to the counter and after putting on latex gloves put the purse in his cardboard box. Next to the purse lay the previous day's newspaper, neatly folded at the crossword page. It too was covered in soot and smoke residue, but if you looked closely enough you could clearly make out his careful lettering. Would Greg have noticed, he wondered? Discreetly so as not to arouse suspicion, he stowed the paper into the box too. Bedroom next, he thought.

"Where's Catherine?" Greg asked.

"Talking to Schaffer," Grissom answered.

"I thought she could do the bedroom, you know? Look through Sara's clothes and things. She's a woman; she'll know what to get."

A muscle twitched in Grissom's jaw. "Have you been in?" he found himself asking in a voice carefully devoid of any expression.

"I just took a peek. Sara must have closed the door after her when she got up. Smoke damage isn't half as bad in there."

Grissom headed to the bedroom. He thought about, but didn't close the bedroom door after him lest he aroused suspicion. Greg was right; the bedroom had been spared. The bed was unmade, and Grissom had to resist the temptation to pull the covers over it. His gaze zoomed in on the bedside table, a frown forming on his face at the absence of the photograph. He scanned quick eyes over the room, in case Sara had moved the frame to different location, but came up blank.

Swiftly he covered the distance to the bedside table and checked all around and behind it. Maybe Sara had knocked it over when she'd made her escape, but Grissom didn't find it. He searched his brain for the last time he'd actually seen the frame in situ, but again came up blank. _Come on_, he scolded himself, _this isn't like you. Focus._

He moved over to the chest of drawers and opened the left-hand side drawer, _his_ drawer, and after checking the coast was clear hurriedly removed the few items of clothing he kept there – one pair of pyjama bottoms, underpants, socks, a T-shirt – throwing everything in the bag. Next he went to the adjoining bathroom and packed up his shaving cream and razor, his toothbrush and man's shampoo.

When he was done, he returned to the bedroom and looked around, and satisfied he'd erased all evidence of his ever having stayed there set about packing some of Sara's clothes and toiletries, her hairdryer…things she'd need, he reckoned, all the while making sure he covered his stuff with hers in the bag. Then he remembered her gun and checked the shelf above the clothes rail in the built-in closet.

Carefully he picked up the Timberland shoe box and lowered it. Her gun was inside, wrapped in a rag, exactly as she'd stowed it. Grissom put the box inside his bigger one and returned to the closet.

"Where's Grissom?" he heard Catherine ask next door.

"In the bedroom."

Swiftly, Grissom grabbed the second shoe box Sara kept at the back of the shelf and also packed it away. Catherine crossed the threshold, obscuring the room, hence making her presence known. Grissom carefully schooled his features into a neutral expression.

"How are you getting on?" she asked, when he looked up and over at her.

Grissom shrugged. "There's just so much. I should have brought more boxes."

Without a word, Catherine turned on her heels, only to reappear a minute later with a roll of black trash bags. "We can use these," she said, tearing a bag from the roll and handing it to Grissom. "Do you know anything about Sara having a boyfriend?" she then asked.

Grissom was trying to open the trash bag and thankfully not looking at Catherine. He made sure his mask was on before he glanced up. "No," he replied, and shrugged a casual shoulder. "I―I…what makes you say that?"

Catherine straightened her hard hat. "Just…well, that there's two lots of everything on the draining board."

Grissom kicked himself at the oversight. "Greg might know," he said, coolly enough. "Have you asked him?"

"He doesn't," Catherine replied categorically. "Says Sara never mentioned anyone."

"Ah."

"Yeah, well, you can't fool me."

"Evidently not," Grissom muttered as he turned back to the closet.

"Two plates mean she had a man round for breakfast."

"Maybe just a friend," Grissom tried, mustering as casual a tone as he could, and crouching down began to fill the trash bag with Sara's shoes and boots.

"I mean, he should be told, right?"

Grissom's brow rose. _Maybe he already knows._

"Maybe I should look through her phone," Catherine then said. "Greg said you had her purse?"

Grissom paused, kept his back to her as he spoke. "It's in the box there, but…" he stopped, turned to look over his shoulder, "I don't think Sara would appreciate us poking around her stuff anymore than we're already doing, do you? I'm sure that…if Sara does have a boyfriend he'd have heard about the fire on the news."

Catherine pulled a face, then scanned her eyes over the room and walked over to the bedside table, while Grissom turned back to his task. "There's a paper crane in the drawer in the bedside table," she said after a beat. "I wonder if he gave it to her."

Grissom snapped his head up and swallowed. _As a matter of fact he did_, he thought, but didn't say it aloud.

"Packet of condom," Catherine went on, as if doing a running commentary at a crime scene, "Box of tissues, Advil, Vaseline, pocket edition of _To Kill a Mockingbird…"_

_That's mine actually._

"Phone charger, iPod. I'll put all that in your box," Catherine said.

_The condoms too_, he wondered? Slowly, he closed his eyes and counted to ten before he turned. Maybe he'd got away with it after all.

A half-hour later and carrying their loot, the trio left Sara's apartment. Grissom used the car keys he'd found in her purse to unlock the Prius and they stowed all the bags and boxes they'd filled in there. _A trunkful_, he thought, _not much to show for someone's life and work._ "I'm going to drive the car to CSI," he said. "It'll be safer in the lot there. I'll come back for mine later."

"I'll follow you," Catherine said, "Give you a ride back."

Grissom nodded his thanks, and Catherine walked off toward her car. He was about to shut the trunk when Greg spoke.

"You look after her, Grissom," he said quietly. "She's special."

Grissom looked up and stared at Greg in astonishment. Unable to hold Greg's gaze and keep his mask on, he averted his eyes to the trunk, only then noticing the wooden picture frame slotted safely between two large textbooks in the box Greg had filled. Grissom's eyes flicked back up hesitantly, and he stared at Greg with newfound respect.

"I know," he replied in a nod, the words catching in his throat. "And I will."

Grissom's phone chose this moment to beep. With a frown, Grissom retrieved it from his jacket pocket and opened the text. A chill ran through him as he read the brief message.

"Grissom, what's wrong?" Greg asked. "Is it Sara?"


	7. Chapter 7

"Grissom, what's wrong?" Greg asked. "Is it Sara?"

"No," Grissom said, glancing up from his phone. "It's from Al. Al Robbins." He swallowed, gave his head a shake. Why had the coroner's news unnerved him so much? After all, Robbins' findings only confirmed what he'd feared when he'd looked at the victim's apartment. "The preliminary autopsy findings show that Heather Clarke's fire-related injuries were inflicted post-mortem."

Greg's gaze narrowed. "Sara's neighbour?"

Putting his phone away, Grissom nodded then snapped his head round toward the lot, checking to see whether Schaffer's investigation truck was still there. It was. Would knowing that the victim was already dead when the fire started change the fire investigator's findings? It shouldn't, and yet. There was something about the guy that troubled him, and it wasn't just the leering way he looked at Catherine.

"Does he have any idea on COD?" Greg asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

Grissom refocused. "He didn't say."

"It's not the first time a fire would have been started to cover a homicide," Greg stated.

"I know," Grissom said, and shut the trunk of Sara's car. "Or maybe the victim died of natural causes, or a drug overdose. Let's not get ahead of ourselves." He was playing devil's advocate, and he knew it.

"Gil!" Catherine shouted over to him. "What's the holdup?"

Grissom turned toward Catherine who, looking as impatient as she'd sounded, was leaning out of her car. She slipped her sunglasses up to the top of her head and fixed him with a quizzical look.

"I'm coming," he called back, and walked round to the driver's side door. Pausing suddenly, he turned to Greg still standing at the same spot. "Not one word of this to Sara, all right?" Grissom told him, "Not until we know more. I don't want to distress her any more than she already is."

Greg had a moment's hesitation before he nodded his head.

Grissom opened the car door and made to go in but stopped. He flicked his gaze back up to Greg hesitantly. "Tell Sara I…" he sighed, "I'll be round later – when it's not so busy."

Greg nodded. "I will."

"Oh, and Greg," he added quietly, holding Greg's gaze, "Thank you."

Greg gave him a smile and a nod, then made for his own car. The horn of a car sounded, impatiently, reminding Grissom Catherine was still waiting. Cursing under his breath, he turned the engine on and fastened his seatbelt, then put the car in reverse and turned to look over his shoulder, ready to back of the space. Hank's blanket on the backseat caught his eye and he sighed.

After dropping Sara's car off at the lab, he really should go home and catch some sleep before he headed to the hospital, but Doc's text played on his mind. He would pay him a visit, put his mind at rest, _then_ go home. He patted his pocket for his cell, found it and called Catherine.

"Yo!" she replied, "What's taking you so long?"

"I was thinking I might stay at the lab after I drop Sara's car off, so thank you, but you can go home, catch up on some sleep while you can."

There was a pause. "That's what you should be doing too. You look awful."

Grissom chuckled. "Well, thank you."

"You know what I mean," Catherine said, sounding contrite.

He sighed. "I just got a text from doc. It appears that the vic was dead before the fire started. I'm going to go see him, see if he's narrowed down COD."

"Then I'm coming with."

He knew there would be no point arguing with her, so without another word he disconnected the call and finally set off. A half-hour later, they were pushing the double doors to the morgue, both reaching for matching blue lab coats as they went in and slipping them on. Robbins looked up from the body spread open on the table, put his scalpel down and lowered his glasses to his chest.

"Gil," Robbins said pleasantly, and yet showing his surprise, "I didn't expect to see you. Or you, Catherine. I thought you'd be catching up on sleep, which is why I texted."

"We were at Sara's place," Grissom said, moving to stand on the other side of the autopsy table from Robbins.

"Packing her stuff," Catherine added, joining him. "Well, what we could."

Robbins' nod was solemn. "Is there much damage? I mean, I saw the footage on the news but…" His words trailed off. "Will she be able to move back in, I mean, in time?"

"Probably not," Grissom said, more abruptly that he intended, and ready to put an end to the topic of conversation in hand averted his gaze to the body on the table.

"You send her my love when you see her, all right?" Robbins said softly.

Grissom's eyes came up sharply, as he wondered whether Doc's message was loaded, but Robbins was looking at Catherine, and Grissom realised his well-meaning words had been directed at her.

Catherine smiled and nodded her head. "I will. I'm hoping to be able to go visit her later."

_When later exactly?_ Grissom wondered despondently. At this rate, would there ever be a time when Sara would be free of visitors, so he could spend a little time with her too? Would he be able to talk his way into her room outside visiting hours twice in a row?

"Where's David?" he asked.

"He's gone home," Robbins replied, refocusing on Grissom as he slipped his glasses back on. "So, I take it since you've come all this way you want to know what I've got." And without waiting for a reply, "I can't find any evidence that our victim was alive and breathing during the fire. There's no soot or burning within the lungs, bronchial tubes and throat. Level of CO in tissue is nil." He flicked his eyes over to Catherine and then back to Grissom. "I expect CO blood levels to come back nil too."

Grissom thought as much. "So the fire didn't kill her," he surmised. "What did?"

"Well, that's trickier. David took and sent samples of blood to tox to test for alcohol and drug levels, but they'll take a few days to come back."

"Any marks of violence on the body?" Catherine asked.

"I can't see any stab or gunshot wounds anywhere. The radiographs David took show some bone fractures but I agree with his conclusions that they were caused post-mortem, heat rather than by ante-mortem trauma. Same for the skin splitting in places, as you can see."

"So cause of death is unknown," Catherine remarked.

"Well, there is something, but I need to dig deeper." Robbins looked up at them over the top of his glasses and smiled. "So to speak."

Reaching up, he switched on the monitor that hung over the table, then moved over to the computer and tapped a few keys. A frontal X-ray image of the victim's head and neck filled the screen. Grissom leaned forward and wishing he'd remembered to bring his glasses with him squinted up at the image. The hyoid bone was clearly broken.

"As you both know," Robbins began, "The hyoid bone is not susceptible to easy fracture. In fact, it takes tremendous pressure to break it. The fire could have done it post-mortem, but judging by the position of the victim―"

Understanding dawned on Grissom. "She was lying prone, with her face turned away, hence protecting that part of her neck from the fire."

"That's right."

"Are you saying she was strangulated?" Catherine asked.

"Or throttled. But as I said, I need to dig deeper, check for ante-mortem bruising to the area."

"Could the fracture have happened at the scene during recovery of the body?" Grissom asked, his eyes on the victim.

"I trust David implicitly," Robbins said with surprise.

Grissom snapped his gaze up. "I'm sorry," he said, raising his hand in apology. "I didn't mean to imply _David_ had." Feeling flustered, he sighed. "I was thinking of the fire crew that found her. Maybe they moved her."

"I'll check with David, but they should know better than to do that."

Grissom nodded, then sighed again and rubbed a tired hand down his face. "Have you notified PD?"

"I have. When I texted you."

Good, Grissom thought, Brass would undoubtedly already be on the case, gathering background information and interviewing the victim's friends and family. Did she have a boyfriend? Was she in an abusive relationship, maybe?

"I'll let Mike Schaffer know," Catherine said.

_I bet you will_, Grissom thought, but kept it to himself.

Robbins nodded. "Thank you. Tell him that I'll get him a copy of everything as soon as I've got it."

"Have next-of-kin been?" Grissom asked.

Robbins shook his head. "Not yet. Visual identification will be hard and inconclusive, but so far from what Captain Brass said everything leads to believe our victim is indeed Heather Clarke. I'm waiting on medical and dental records. David took dental charts for comparison. He managed to get some DNA from the marrow in the right femur."

Grissom nodded, made a mental note to call Brass later for a status report. "Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome. I'll let you know as soon as I have something more concrete for you."

Grissom nodded again, then he glanced at Catherine and taking his lab coat off made his way to the door. He could feel both Catherine and doc's eyes on him all the while.

"How was Céline?" he heard Catherine ask, but he didn't wait for Robbins' answer to find out.

"Gil, wait up?" Catherine called a little breathlessly, catching up with him as he reached the car lot. "I'm giving you a ride, remember?"

Grissom sighed. "Sorry." He gave his head a shake. "It's just…I've a lot on my mind, that's all."

Catherine gave his arm a pat, and they set off toward Catherine's silver SUV. "You need to go home. Get a little sleep."

"So do you."

Catherine's only response was to smile enigmatically, but Grissom was no fool. Catherine beeped the car open and they climbed in.

"Catherine, you got to watch Schaffer, all right? I don't like his intentions."

Catherine's smile spread across her face. "I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

When he finally got to the hospital, Sara was sitting up in bed, idly flicking through a magazine and much to his relief visitor-free. The oxygen mask was gone, replaced by a cannula that fed oxygen through her nose. She wore the pyjamas she kept at his place and he'd brought along that morning. A wide smile formed on her lips as he approached and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"Ready for one more visitor?" he asked brightly.

She chuckled. "I thought you'd never get here."

The hoarse huskiness in her voice made his smile grow. "I'm sorry. I slept in."

Her expression softening, she nodded her head in understanding. "You look better for it."

"How are you feeling?"

"Much better." She pointed at her throat. "Aside from the Lindsay Lohan thing going on."

His lips curled in a smile. "I was thinking more Scarlett Johansson. I like it," he said softly after a pause. "A lot."

Her laughter turned into a sharp wheeze, then a phlegmy coughing fit. Grissom rushed round to the other side of the bed, picked up her glass and brought the straw to her lips. She took a few sips of water, then gently pushed his hand away.

"You okay?" he asked, setting the glass back.

Sara gave a small nod. "Just don't make me laugh," she said, and then took a few slow, steadying breaths. She reached for a paper bowl and spit out a little mucus in it. "Greg passed on your message by the way."

"I bet he did," Grissom replied in a chuckle, as he took the bowl from her and set it on the bedside table.

"I'm sorry."

Grissom's expression creased with a frown. "Whatever for?"

"Him founding out like that."

Grissom's shoulder lifted. "It's not your fault, or the end of the world. Brass knows too."

Sara cocked a brow. "You told him?"

"He kind of figured it out."

Sara's smile was gentle and reflective. "We're not as astute as we thought."

Grissom laughed again. "We did all right." He paused, lowered his gaze hesitantly, and then brought it back up to Sara's face, his mind made up. "I'm going to take a few days off when you get out, and look after you."

Sara's face was soft. "Gil, you don't need to do that. I'll be fine." She paused and took a few breaths through the cannula. "Besides, I'm not sure my staying at your place is such a good idea."

Grissom frowned. "How do you mean?"

Sitting forward, Sara stroked her hand to his face, and he knew he wasn't going to like what she was about to say. "The guys have been to your place. They know there's only one bedroom. They're not stupid, they'll work it out."

"I'll think of something."

"Gil." She paused and dropped her hand, and he could tell she was choosing her words carefully.

"Sara, if they find out, they find out," he cut in impatiently, and checked himself. "We'll deal with it."

"Are you sure?" her eyes asked him, and he nodded his head vigorously. He didn't want work to know about the relationship because of the unavoidable ramifications, but he wouldn't lie about it. And there was no way Sara wasn't going to stay at his place. It's not like she had any family she could call on to, and staying in a motel was out of the question.

"Greg said the damage to my apartment wasn't as bad as first feared," she said, drawing him out of his thoughts.

Grissom brightened up at the change of topic. "Your bedroom's mainly intact. You must have closed the door after you."

Sara's eyes took on a sad and distant turn, as if she was trying to remember. Was she about to share what she'd lived through with him, he wondered? He waited, and silently willed her to, but she didn't, simply refocusing on him and giving him a soft smile he could only helplessly reciprocate. In time, he hoped she would be able to open up and tell him.

"I found your box," he said suddenly, "you know, the one you keep at the back of the closet in your bedroom. There was no damage to it at all."

Tears filled Sara's eyes unexpectedly. "Thank you," she choked out.

He nodded, and knowing how precious the content of the box was to her stroked his hand to her cheek comfortingly. "I've taken it to mine for safe keeping. Your gun and field kit I put in your locker at CSI. The rest is in your car and I'll sort through it over the next few days. Catherine is going to call a fire clean-up and restoration firm she's used before." He wiped at the underside of her right eye. "It's going to be okay. The worst is behind us."

Sara managed a small nod and smile. "The woman…who died in the fire," she then said. "Who was she?"

Not wanting to tell an outright lie, Grissom chose his words carefully. "Her name's Heather Clarke. I don't know anything more for now. Doc's still conducting the autopsy. I haven't spoken to Brass yet."

Sara nodded. Her eyes drifted shut, then opened again, and he knew the long day was taking its toll and he'd need to leave soon. They sat in silence for a short while before there was a gentle knock on the door and an orderly came in, carrying a tray of food for Sara. Grissom stood up and stepped back, then watched as she placed the tray on the table which she wheeled over the bed.

"Sir," she said quietly, "Visiting hours finished half an hour ago."

Grissom shared a look with Sara. "I've a…special dispensation."

The orderly's brow shot up, and she laughed. "Nice try, but I don't think so." Her tone was kind and amused, and turning back to Sara Grissom twisted his mouth in a pout. "But if you were to help with feeding the patient," the orderly went on, lifting the lid off Sara's food, "I could maybe forget I saw you. And obviously when I come back for the tray you'd be long gone."

"Obviously," he replied, picking up the fork and giving Sara a giddy wink.


	8. Chapter 8

Grissom checked the time on his watch, picked up the assignment slips from his desk and made his way to the break room. He'd left the hospital some two hours earlier, had been preparing shift ever since, but he simply couldn't get motivated. He couldn't wait until Sara was given the all clear so life could go back to normal – well, as normal as it could in the circumstance. He knew his condo would be a little cramped for the three of them, but he was sure they could – and would – make it work.

If someone had asked him, even as late as a few days ago, if he ever saw a time when he'd be ready for Sara to move in permanently with him and Hank he'd have said no. His space, his haven of peace and solitude, of singlehood, was precious to him. But not as precious as Sara, he'd realised since. The long drive to the hospital, waiting for news, fearing the worst, had made sure of that.

Sara had grown tired while eating, her breathing becoming more laboured, wheezy even, and even as he gently coaxed food into her he couldn't help worrying she wasn't quite out of the woods yet. Pulmonary oedema was still a real concern, bacteria developing in her airways and lungs causing fluid to accumulate, impairing her breathing.

And yet a smile formed at the recollection. Her injured right hand and thick bandage made it difficult for Sara to feed herself, and he'd been only too happy to help and postpone the moment he would have to leave. "When you're out of here," he'd said after a few mouthfuls in silence, "if you're feeling up to it, we could take a trip somewhere." He'd looked up, once again slowly lifting the fork to her mouth. "I mean, not far, just…somewhere quiet, away from everything."

Sara opened her mouth, taking the food from him, and chewed carefully.

"It's been a long time since we did that," he remarked, meditative as he lowered the fork back to the plate.

"You know I can do this myself, right?" she said wiping her chin with the paper napkin when she'd finished the mouthful.

A slow smile spread on his face. "I know."

She stared at him, then brought her hand up to her mouth to cough. Quickly he swapped the fork for the glass of water and passed it to her. She took a few careful sips, and he passed her the paper napkin to wipe at a little spit on her lip.

"You're enjoying yourself far too much," she said, her lips twitching with a mischievous smile.

"I'm only doing as told," he said, when the closer truth was that he liked looking after her. He loaded the fork again, then mimed opening his mouth as he brought the food to her lips. "So," he prompted, as she chewed, "about that trip?"

"It'd be nice."

When having had enough she shook her head he didn't insist, simply rolling the table aside and watching her with concern. She was looking drained with the effort of eating and breathing, and there was nothing else he could do to help her. She gave him a smile and shuffled up a little on the bed.

"Sit with me a moment," her eyes told him.

Only too happy to oblige he did as bid, carefully climbing on the bed and wrapping his arm around her shoulders while she leaned her head against him. Filled with a deep sense of well-being, he closed his eyes and listened to each wheezy breath she took.

"I'm going to clear space on my shelves," he said after a moment in silence, glancing toward the door when he heard the cart squeak closer outside the room, "Pack up some of my books to make space for yours. Your furniture we can store at my mother's. She's got a spare room she isn't using."

Sara turned her head toward him. "And what are you going to tell her, huh?"

"I'll think of something," he replied with a twist of the mouth, and gently squeezed her to him before asking a little hesitantly, "Does that mean you're moving in?"

Sara smiled. "I'm moving in."

His smile broadened, and he leaned in for a kiss on the lips he quickly had to pull back from when Sara started to cough. But when the coughing fit had passed the smile on her face still lingered, and he felt happy. With a peaceful sigh she laid her head on his shoulder again, and wishing this moment could last all night he tightened his hold around her and closed his eyes.

Much too soon he heard the cart stop outside Sara's room and the door opened, the orderly back for the tray. There was no prolonging the inevitable now, and after giving her a gentle goodnight hug he'd grudgingly torn himself away, promising he'd be back as soon as he could.

And now as he rounded the corner to the break room, he saw they were all there – his team – sat around the table and nursing hot drinks as they waited for him. Well only Sara was missing, he thought with a pang of sadness.

"She can stay at mine," he heard Greg say. "It's no problem."

His brow furrowing, Grissom stopped dead in his tracks and moved to stand close to the wall, out of direct sight.

"What?" Catherine quipped in good humour. "In that ramshackle shack of yours?"

"It's not a shack!" Greg exclaimed. "Admittedly it needs some work done to it but…"

"The _love_ shack," Warrick chipped in, chuckling.

"Very funny," Greg defended sullenly, and Catherine wrapped an amicable arm around his shoulder. Greg suddenly glanced over, straight at where Grissom was standing, and a silent message passed between the two. Grissom flashed a small, uncomfortable smile, sheepish he'd been caught listening but also grateful for what he realised Greg was trying to do.

"She can always come to stay at mine," Catherine said, refocusing both he and Greg. "I'm sure Lindsey won't mind."

Grissom's heart sank at the thought.

Nick opened his hands. "Have you stopped to think that maybe Sara's already made living arrangements for when she comes out of the hospital?"

Grissom's ears pricked up. _Nick, the voice of reason_, he thought. Worried he might look like he was eavesdropping – which he was – Grissom reached for his cell and pretended to use it while head bent toward the device he spied at his team out of the corner of his eye and listened.

Catherine's brow arched in interest as she waited for more. "She said something to you?" she eventually asked, with unconcealed curiosity, and taking a sip of his drink Greg glanced toward Grissom again.

"No. Not in so many words," Nick replied, then paused. "But," he shrugged, "I think Sara's got a boyfriend, that's all."

"I knew it!" Catherine exclaimed, banging her hand on the table.

"What makes you say that?" Greg asked Nick, his face a picture of surprise and innocence.

"Just…you know, there was toiletry stuff in the bathroom at the hospital, the change of clothes she was wearing. Someone must have brought them for her."

_I did,_ Grissom thought with an inward sigh at yet another oversight.

"Someone could have bought them for her," Warrick said, matter-of-fact.

"Who?" Catherine asked. "Did you?"

Warrick's lift of the shoulder was answer enough. "Maybe Griss did."

Grissom's heartbeat quickened.

"Grissom?" Catherine exclaimed, with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"Just sayin'," Warrick mumbled in a way that told Grissom he was in agreement with Catherine.

_Ah, Warrick,_ Grissom thought, and shook his head, _Warrick, Warrick, Warrick_._ You disappoint me._ Grissom shook his head again, then allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. _Wait till I tell Sara_, he thought.

"I think Nick's right though," Catherine told her rapt audience, drawing him out of his musings. "When we went to her apartment earlier, there were two sets of everything in the dishrack. Someone was round for breakfast, I know it."

Mouths pursed, heads nodded in agreement. All, except Greg who stole another glance at Grissom. Was that his cue?

"Do _you_ know?" Warrick asked Greg, who refocused with a start.

Greg shrugged his shoulder. "Sara never…mentioned anyone."

With a sigh, Grissom put his phone away. He was about to go into the room and put a stop to the gossip, when a tap on his shoulder made him jump. He turned with a start, only to stare at one of Brass's trademark smirks.

"Eavesdropping on your team?" the captain asked, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard.

Grissom shrugged his shoulder as if it was no big deal. "There were talking about Sara. I…didn't want to interrupt."

Brass laughed, and together they made their way into the break room.

"Catherine," Grissom said, without preamble, his professional mask firmly on, while Brass went to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot, "I need you and Warrick at a murder – suicide in Sunrise Manor." Catherine stood up and took the slip Grissom was holding out. "Nick, I got a good old trick roll for you, and Greg you're staying here, with me."

Warrick and Nick stood up, and laughing Warrick clapped Nick on the shoulder. "Trick roll, huh?"

"Shut up," Nick said, his tone that of friendly banter.

"Gil," Catherine called, as he made to leave, "Have you…spoken to Sara at all?"

Grissom glanced toward Brass hesitantly. "Sure," he then said brightly. "I went to visit her earlier. Why?"

"Did she mention to you where she thought she'd be staying, I mean, when she leaves the hospital?"

This was the moment of reckoning. Grissom's mouth opened, full of conviction. "As a matter of fact, she did. She's going to be staying with―"

"Me," Brass said, stealing the word right out of Grissom's mouth, and casually brought the cup of coffee to his mouth.

Just like the rest of his team, Grissom turned toward Brass and frowned darkly.

Brass's returning shrug was mild and amused. "I got space," he told them, "plenty of it. And to be honest I'm looking forward to the company." And then in the same breath and totally straight-faced, "Anyone knows if she cooks?"

Brass's question earned open sniggers from Nick and Warrick while Greg silently watched on and Grissom stared in disbelief.

"Well, that's settled then," Catherine said, relief evident in her tone. And with a parting smile she turned on her heels, followed by the rest of them.

Cup in hand, Brass set off down the corridor toward Grissom's office. "Listen, Jim," Grissom said, falling in step with him, "Thank you very much for the offer, but I've got it all sorted out."

"It's no big deal," Brass said, glancing over at him, "You can come visit any time. You know that, right?" The door to Grissom's office was open, and Brass went in, taking a seat and making himself at home while Grissom shut the door after them. "You can even spend the night – or the day, as the case may be. I don't care either way, as long as she pulls her weight round the house."

Brass was enjoying himself far too much for Grissom's liking. "Well, I do," he said, rather petulantly, as he moved behind his desk, "I do care. And no. Sara won't be coming to stay with you. She's going to stay at mine, and I'll tell everyone I'm staying at my mother's. She's got a spare room, even if I won't be using it."

"Buddy, I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but Sara agreed."

Grissom looked up and fixed his friend with a look of surprise. "She what?"

Brass shrugged. "She agreed to stay with me."

Grissom's expression was pained, his disappointment palpable. "She did? When?" He lowered his gaze and rubbed at his face. "I don't understand…"

Brass let out a chuckle, and Grissom looked up, eyes suddenly narrowed in distrust. There was a spark in Brass's eyes, a twitch in his smile that told Grissom all he needed to know. His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.

"You bastard," he said under his breath, head shaking in disbelief.

Brass laughed again. "I got you going, didn't I?"

Grissom made a little grunting sound.

"You're wound up too tight."

Grissom pulled a face. "Well, can you blame me?"

"Sara didn't agree to anything," Brass then said, "But think about it, if only for a few days, while the dust settles, or better still until she gets back to work. That way, if people want to visit her they can, and not ask questions." He paused and tried pinching his lips to stifle his amusement. "And I meant it, you can come round anytime. I'll make myself scarce, or buy a good pair of headphones."

Grissom smiled. "I don't know."

Brass spread his hands. "It's up to you. But the offer is there. How is she anyway? I meant to go say "Hi" but…"

Grissom's expression softened at his friend's visible care and concern. "She's doing better, but I'm worried her breathing's got worse again. They're taking another chest X-ray tomorrow, so we'll know soon enough."

"She's fit and healthy. She'll bounce back." Brass's eyes lowered to his cup, and he nodded his head. "That fire, Gil," he then said, looking back up, "Well, it scared the hell out of me."

_And me_, Grissom thought, and then because he needed to change topic, "So, Heather Clarke. What do you know about her?"

With a sigh Brass set his cup on Grissom's desk and got his black book out of his jacket inner breast pocket. "Heather Clarke," he said, all business-like now. "27. Moved to Vegas from Tonopah three years ago, in search of a better life. I spoke with her parents, but they didn't really keep in touch. From what I gathered they didn't approve of her moving to the big city.

"Younger sister moved to Reno. I haven't managed to track her down yet. For the last six months, she worked as a waitress at the Mediterranean. I spoke with her manager…" he consulted his book again, "one Ryan Betts. He only had good things to say about her – reliable, popular with customers, with colleagues. Couldn't praise her enough. Due to start shift at seven the night of the fire but never turned up."

"Yeah, and we know why."

Brass nodded, then startled and patted his jacket pockets before finally pulling out a plastic evidence bag he held out to Grissom. "This is her work ID. Found it in her locker. There was a little makeup, a few items of clothing; I logged it all in for processing."

After putting his glasses on, Grissom took the proffered bag and stared down at the picture on the ID badge. "Good looking girl."

"Well, not anymore."

Grissom gave a quiet nod, returned the photo to Brass. "Boyfriend?"

"Neither the manager or the parents knew. But the manager mentioned that some two months back maybe? She turned up for work with more makeup than usual, not enough to conceal the black eye though. When he asked her about it, she gave the standard reply."

"The manager checked out?"

"He did. Seemed genuinely shaken by her death." A smile slowly spread on his work-weary face. "I'm thinking there was more to their relationship than simply boss-employee, if you see what I mean."

Grissom's brow rose, but he didn't take the bait.

"I spoke to the neighbour that called 911," Brass went on, unperturbed. "He didn't know her, not really, just to say hello. Said she was quiet, kept herself to herself. Said he heard more than one voice sometimes, but nothing unusual. According to the tenancy agreement she moved into the apartment a little over a year ago. Paid on time, no cause for complain―" A knock on Grissom's door stopped Brass mid-sentence.

"Come in," Grissom called, turning toward the sound.

The door opened and Henry popped his head in. His eyes flicked from Grissom to Brass and back to Grissom again before he came in fully. "Sir, I got the toxicology report for Heather Clarke. Tested positive for benzoylmethylecgonine."

"Cocaine," Grissom surmised, and Henry nodded.

"Enough to suggest an overdose?" Brass asked.

"No," Henry replied, reaching over to hand Grissom the result sheet.

Grissom took the sheet and scanned the results. "But more than enough to impair judgement." He looked up at Henry over the top of his glasses. "You sent a copy to the coroner?"

"Yes, sir."

Grissom nodded. "Thanks, Henry." He waited until the door had shut behind the tech to remove his glasses and rub his face.

"I'm going to go speak to the manager again, her co-workers," Brass said. "See what they got to say. Someone's bound to know something."

"And I'll check with doc for signs of chronic use, but the state of the body won't make that easy."

"So are we looking at homicide, or accidental death?"

Grissom took in a breath he let out slowly. "The jury's still out."

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you, as always, for reading. It's the best gift you can give a writer. That and a review. ;-)


	9. Chapter 9

Night shift was over. His team had left some half-hour ago, but Grissom was still at his desk, reviewing the latest nightshift's expenditure report. He hated having to justify every single cent spent, every necessary test and procedure, but such was the nature of the game. He was turning to the last page when his cell vibrated on the desk. _Sara,_ he immediately thought, snatching the phone up fearfully, only to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw Brass's name flash on the screen. Tiredly, he connected the call.

"So, an hour or so ago," the captain said without preamble, "I got one Cameron Quinn walk into the station."

Grissom tried to shake the fog clear from his mind. "And who's he?" he asked, his brow creasing in bafflement.

"Heather Clarke's boyfriend."

His interest suddenly piqued, Grissom removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose – slowly changing the shape of his nasal passage so he could get more air in and wake himself up – and straightened up in his seat.

"Says he drove all the way from Phoenix, Arizona, as soon as he heard the news," Brass went on. "He's a contractor, been working there since Tuesday."

"That's the day before the fire," Grissom remarked. "His alibi checked out?"

"Sort of. He hasn't got one for when the fire started, he'd clocked off by then and lives alone in his truck when working away, but he said he was on a job until around four thirty pm. Should be easy enough to check."

The drive from Phoenix to Las Vegas took a good five hours; if his alibi checked out there was no way he could have been at the crime scene for six pm in time to cover up a murder. "What else did he have to say?"

"Said Heather was clean. Didn't even smoke, which tallies with what her co-workers all told me."

Pondering that reply, Grissom sat back in his seat and scratched his head.

"What did Robbins say about the drug use?"

"Not much. He can't see any signs of chronic use – cocaine or otherwise. No needle marks, or scarring in the nostrils, and nothing showed up in the stomach content. Her organs were all in good physical shape – pre-fire of course. She was young, and otherwise healthy from what he can ascertain. He can't swear to anything of course, on account of the extensive burns the body sustained." He paused, frowned. "Did you ask about the black eye?"

"Ah, the black eye," Brass mused in a chuckle. "That's a trickier one. Boyfriend said she told him she got it at work – some fight she tried to break up."

"At the Mediterranean?" Grissom exclaimed with undisguised surprise.

"My thoughts exactly. Her co-workers said the same as the manager, that she'd run into a door."

"Well, someone is lying."

"Or she lied to both parties."

Brass's words gave Grissom pause. "You think the boyfriend's telling the truth?"

"He says he was away on another job when it happened. I still need to check that out, but I'm inclined to believe him."

Grissom pursed his mouth. "Maybe she led a double life, one neither the boyfriend nor her co-workers know about."

"Boyfriend often away for periods of time?" Brass mused. "Wouldn't be the first woman to play around – the manager a case in point."

"I thought that was only conjecture on your part."

"One of Heather's co-workers confirmed it. She found them smooching in his office. Her words, not mine."

"Is he a suspect?"

"Give me a definite time for when the victim died and I'll tell you. But he was at work when the fire started."

"And the boyfriend?"

"He was pretty cut up. Says they'd been seeing each other for the last six months or so, that they were making plans, you know, for the future. But listen to this. When I asked about Heather's sister, he said he didn't know she had one, that she never mentioned it. So, I'm thinking they're estranged, right? It happens. Anyways, I put her name into the system, and guess what?"

"She's got form?"

"Yep. One misdemeanour marijuana possession back in 03, and another one for solicitation of prostitution. That was last year. All up in Reno. I got a contact at Reno PD looking into it as we speak, see if he can find her. Maybe _she_ knows about the secret life. I called the parents again, but they've not seen her, or heard from her, not since she left home. They're coming over to Vegas to ID the body later today."

"Well, you _have_ been busy."

Brass chuckled. "All in a day's work – and a night."

Grissom sighed. "You still suspect foul play?"

"Too many loose ends for my liking."

Grissom nodded in agreement. "I'm going to get Greg to look into the vic's employment history and finances, get her phone records and bank statements, see if he can find anything that would sustain this double-life theory. A cocaine habit isn't cheap. She had to pay for it somehow."

"Rent in that neighbourhood's not cheap either, especially on a waitress' salary."

_It isn't_, Grissom silently agreed, but the apartment building was in a nice, safe neighbourhood with views of Mount Charleston in the background. "Maybe she got tipped well."

"Yeah, but tipped for what services exactly?"

Grissom's brow rose. "You're thinking high end prostitution?"

"Or escorting―I don't know," Brass sighed. "But what I know is that there is more to Heather than meets the eye." And then after a beat, "You thought any more about my offer?"

Grissom frowned. "Your offer?"

"You know, about Sara moving in with me."

Grissom's brow rose sharply; he didn't like Brass's phrasing. He didn't like it at all. It sounded too final and permanent. Sara was supposed to be moving in with _him_. He sighed, but otherwise kept his frustrations to himself. "I'm going to go over to the hospital later. I'll speak with her then, see what she says."

"Good. Tell her I look forward to having her stay."

Grissom gave a disgruntled grunt as answer, and then hung up. With a look at the time, he folded his glasses and slipped them and his phone in his pocket, then stood up to collect the scattered sheets of his expenditure report.

"You busy?"

Grissom looked up toward his open door with a start. Catherine was leaning against the frame, watching with a soft smile on her face. How long had she been standing there, he wondered? Immediately he went over the end of his and Brass's conversation on the phone just then, but didn't think Catherine had been privy to anything she shouldn't have. "I thought you'd gone home already," he said, casually placing the report into its folder.

"I'm on my way now," she replied. "I had some paperwork to finish. You got your meeting with Ecklie?"

"Yep," he answered, walking round his desk, "And I'm late for it. I've been trying to come up with new reasons why we spend so much on ballistic gel."

Catherine laughed. "Because it's fun?"

Grissom's smile was cynical. "I don't think Ecklie approves of 'fun'."

Grissom indicated they should head off, and laughing Catherine fell in step with him. "Anyways," she said, "I just wanted to let you know that I contacted the cleanup firm and they're coming tomorrow – nine am. I'll go over after shift and supervise. They'll remove all the furniture and furnishings and everything else salvageable and take it to their warehouse to clean."

"That was quick work."

"Well, maybe not quick enough. You know how tough smoke damage is to clean up."

With a quiet nod, Grissom stopped walking and Catherine followed suit, slowly turning toward him. Grissom's eyes lowered hesitantly, then came back up to her face. "Tell them to send me the bill," he said. "I'll cover the expense."

Catherine registered a look of surprise. "You sure?"

Grissom gave a definite nod. "Yeah. I'll sort it all out with Sara later. I'm sure her insurance will cover it - eventually. She's got enough on her plate right now as it is."

Catherine's smile was soft as she nodded her head. "Anyways I best go," she said, patting her hand to his arm, "or I'll miss Lindsey altogether." She began to walk away. "See you tonight."

"Bye, Catherine. And thank you."

"You're welcome," she called back over her shoulder, and with a sigh Grissom walked off in the opposite direction, headed upstairs to Ecklie's office.

* * *

><p>At first she isn't scared.<p>

She's always been a light sleeper and so is easily roused by the incessant beeping of an alarm she's heard before and recognises all too well. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she checks the time on the alarm clock but nothing is showing on the display. With a frown, she grabs her robe from the end of the bed, slips it on and knotting it tightly in place goes to investigate. She opens her bedroom door, the shrill sound of the smoke detector intensifying and echoing painfully in her ears.

The first thing that hits her is the smell of noxious fumes filling her nostrils. The living room stands in darkness, bar for a ray of sunlight through the gap in the badly drawn curtains and Sara clearly makes out a shimmery haze of smoke seeping from underneath the front door and rising. Her heartbeat quickens. Instinctively, she closes the bedroom door after her. She thinks about calling 911, but can already hear the sirens of emergency services approaching in the street below.

She still isn't scared, doesn't panic.

Should she stay put? No, the fire is near she can tell, the smoke getting thicker, and she might get trapped. It's already stinging her eyes, irritating her airways, and decision made she quickly crosses over to the front door. On habit, she shoves her bare feet into the boots she knows are waiting there and makes for the bolt. She takes a breath, opens the door and pushes forward into more darkness. No time to lose, none is wasted.

The heat is intense in the corridor, crushing like a solid wall steadily advancing toward her and she can't push through. But the heat is nothing compared to the black acrid smoke that immediately attacks her insides and leaves her gasping for air. Her eyes water, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face. What she should have done before she'd opened the door, she realises now, is to go back to the bathroom and soak a towel she could have wrapped around her face. Should she turn back?

_Hold your breath_, she tells herself, _hold your breath. It's not far to go. _She knows the way, after all, the quickest, most direct way out. _It's just hot air, _she thinks now_. Hot air rises._

She can hear the fire, distant yet close by, crackling and quickly destroying everything in its path. She can't see a thing. Taking a right, she drops to her knees and as she crawls forward keeps taking small, shallow breaths to preserve her lungs. She is already exhausted. Her chest hurts; she keeps coughing. Her eyes refuse to open. Her head is spinning. The heat seems to be getting stronger, but she knows she's too committed to turn back.

_Not far to go_, she tells herself again.

She feels her hand along the wall and counts the doors all the way to the stairwell, pushes to her feet with difficulty and tries to open the fire door. It's heavy, stubborn. Staying upright takes all her remaining strength and concentration. The handle is so hot that it sticks to her hand and she cries out, but holds on to it nevertheless and lowers it, all the while weakly pushing her body against the door.

The door swings open, the momentum propelling her forward. She falls to her hands and knees, tries to catch her breath, fails to. The door as it automatically swings shut behind her hits the back of her legs, and weakly she gathers them to her, allowing the door to fully shut. Blindly, she crawls forward, reaches the top of the stairs, but her lungs are ready to explode and gasping for air she collapses. Her body's tired and beaten, starved of oxygen. She can feel it shutting down, herself drifting away.

"She's in respiratory distress, non-responding," a female voice called fearfully, over the sound of an alarm.

"Sara?" a man said, gently shaking her shoulders. "Sara, can you hear me? Can you wake up for me?"

_Wake up? _The concrete feels good, cool against her hot cheek. She doesn't want to wake up.

"She's tachycardic," the female voice said. "Her sats are down, below 90. I'm switching from the cannula to a mask."

Sara blinks her eyes, tries to push herself up off the concrete floor. But it's too much effort and when she can't manage it lays her head back down.

"Come on, Sara," the male voice said, as the cold metal disk of the stethoscope was pressed onto her chest. "I know you can hear me. I need you to breathe slowly into the mask."

_Breathe?_ She feels like she is drowning now, fluid filling her lungs instead of air. She feels sick.

Now she is scared.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Read responsibly please. I kind of got carried away with this one. The final scene didn't feature in this chapter's original draft. I hope it's not misplaced.

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><p>"And how much time do you think Sara will need off?" Ecklie asked, as his and Grissom's budget meeting drew to a close.<p>

Grissom frowned. _Ah, there we go_, he thought. _No words of concern, no, how is she doing, just his for-the-good-of-the-lab speech. _ "However long it takes for her to recuperate," he almost replied, but bit his tongue. "I don't know, Conrad. Two weeks? Three maybe?"

Ecklie sighed, and leaning back in his seat lifted his hands behind his head. "It's just…well, you know how overstretched the lab is already, financially but also staff-wise, and looking at the schedule I don't think I'll be able to provide cover for her."

Grissom gave the lab assistant director a stiff smile.

"Do you think your team will be able to cope?"

It was heart-warming to see his team all rallying round, offering emotional but also practical support to one another and Sara, but also him, just like they had done when Nick had been taken. "We'll cope just fine," he said tersely. "We always do, and that without affecting results. Besides," he added more amenably, "Greg is really coming into his own now. He's ready to be more hands-on."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Nick also said that…" His phone vibrated inside his pocket, and keeping his eyes on his boss as he spoke he pulled it out, "He'd cancel the leave he's booked for the week after next if needs be." With a frown he glanced at his phone, his heartbeat instinctively quickening at the unknown number. "I'm going to have to take this," he told Ecklie, knowing it was the hospital calling, and pushing to his feet immediately connected the call.

"Gil!" Ecklie exclaimed, but Grissom was already out of the door.

After confirming he was indeed Sara Sidle's next-of-kin he listened intently to what the nurse told him at the end of the line. Her voice was calm and composed, full of reassurance while his steadily grew more agitated as he asked questions after questions and breathlessly rushed out of the lab. As he feared Sara had taken a turn for the worse during the night, developing the dreaded pulmonary oedema.

By the time Grissom hung up the phone, he was already behind the wheel of his car, firing up the engine. Taking a left turn out of the lot, he drove on autopilot, too fast and without really watching the road. His pulse was racing, his thoughts taken up with Sara. She was in good hands, he'd been told, Doctor Alvarez had been on shift when the respiratory distress had happened and he was with her now, dealing with it.

This potentially life-threatening condition wasn't fully preventable, but he knew the hospital staff caring for Sara had been looking out for it. All too often, smoke inhalation patients were discharged from the hospital too early, and by the time symptoms got too bad and the patient was brought back in, usually in the back of an ambulance, it was too late.

They'd acted fast with Sara, the nurse had assured him, which minimised complications, but was it fast enough? To Sara, it would have felt like she was drowning. Her lungs would have been gradually filling with fluids, making it impossible for oxygen to be absorbed into her bloodstream, consequently depriving the rest of her body of oxygen. There was only one thing to do now, he knew, remove the fluid from her lungs.

He was driving through the intersection with South Durango when a woman stepped off the curb to cross the road right in front of him. His stomach dropped suddenly. His heart slammed against his chest as impulsively he hit the brakes, hard, bringing the car to a screeching stop a foot or so from the woman. The woman's breathless and panicked expression was a mirror of his own as he sat in shock, slumped against the wheel.

"I'm sorry," he mouthed, shaken and gasping.

"Asshole," someone called as they banged their fist, once, on the passenger window.

Numbly Grissom turned toward the voice, then jerkily undid his seatbelt and got out of the car. "Are you all right?" he asked, reaching the woman's side.

The woman nodded her head, tried a smile, but it was clear she too was shaken.

"I'm sorry," he tried again. "I didn't see you. I―" He sighed.

"You were going too fast," a voice called, but Grissom ignored it.

Traffic was backing up behind him, horns sporadically and impatiently beeping at the delay. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked again.

The woman pulled earbuds out of her ears, nodded her head. "I'm okay. Just a little shocked. I was miles away, listening to the music, and I didn't look."

_You didn't look, and I wasn't watching_, Grissom thought with a sigh. Repentant but grateful for the near-miss, Grissom offered to drive the woman home, but she declined with a wry smile and a shake of the head. He didn't blame her. When he got back behind the wheel, he kept just below the speed limit, his eyes scanning every pedestrian crossing, every intersection, as diligently as the day he took his driving test.

"My name is Gil Grissom," he said breathless, when finally he reached the nursing station on the third-floor respiratory ward. He felt hot and flustered, and frantic with worry, emotions he didn't try to conceal. "I came as soon as I could. How is she?"

The nurse stared back at him with puzzlement. "And what patient are you enquiring about, Sir?"

Grissom craned his neck up and down the corridor, searching for the face of a familiar nurse or better still Doctor Alvarez himself. "Sara. Sara Sidle, room 402. I got a call some half-hour ago, saying she was having difficulty breathing. They feared pulmonary oedema."

The nurse unhurriedly flipped through some charts on the desk, before selecting one she read over. "Ah, yes," and then glancing back at Grissom, "She's been taken for a chest X-ray. As far as I know she isn't back yet." She opened her hand, indicating a row of three well-worn chairs a little to the side. "If you'd like to take a seat?"

But Grissom didn't want to sit down; he wanted to see Sara and make sure she was okay. "As far as you know?" he queried with disbelief.

"That's right, Sir," she replied, holding his gaze.

"Well, can you find out, or would you like me to do it?" Grissom exclaimed, causing a passing orderly to stop and turn toward him.

"Sir, please," the nurse said firmly, "there's no need to take this tone with me."

Grissom lifted his hand, palm up toward the nurse, flashed a stiff smile. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "I didn't mean to…I'm just very worried that's all." He cleared the emotion from his voice. "Could you please call someone and find out for me?"

"I'll call radiography," the nurse said, in a kinder tone, "See if she's still there. But please, take a seat over there and I'll come and find you as soon as I know more. There's a drinks machine down the hall, if you'd like a drink while you wait."

Grissom let out a long frustrated breath, and after thanking the nurse reluctantly moved over toward the small waiting area. There he paced briefly, then sat down only to jump back up to his feet a few seconds later and pace again. He checked the time on his watch, but merely a couple of minutes had elapsed. He glanced over to the nursing station; the nurse was on the phone, laughing.

"Sir?"

Grissom turned around with a start.

"They couldn't tell me how long it would be until Sara was brought back on the ward, but Dr Alvarez knows you're here. He'll come and find you as soon as he can. That's all I know, sorry."

Grissom tried a smile, but failed, then nodded his thanks and with a sigh sat down, perching on the edge of the seat, ready to spring to his feet at the first sight of Dr Alvarez. A magazine on the low table at the end of the row of chairs caught his eye, not because of the famous actress on the cover but because of the poor white poodle tucked beneath her arm as if it were her handbag.

_Hank_, he thought with a pang of sadness, _he'll be waiting for me to come pick him up to go for our walk_, and pulled his cell out. A quick call to the sitter made sure Hank would be looked after a while longer – how long exactly, Grissom couldn't tell the sitter.

But as he explained this latest development, it was a relief not to have to hide the depth of his fear and worry. Michelle knew Sara was in hospital and why, and Grissom didn't need to pretend. There was no need, no reason to. Michelle had known about his relationship with Sara from the very start. Sometimes Grissom picked Hank up, sometimes Sara, and sometimes both of them. As far as Michelle was concerned, they were a regular couple, Hank's parents, a family of sorts, a nucleus, one he cherished more than he'd previously realised.

"Take as long as you need," the sitter said warmly, when silence stretched on the line, "Hank is no trouble. You know that."

"Thank you, Michelle. How is he?"

"He's a little quiet, you know? Kind of subdued. He didn't want to go on a long walk. Kept wanting to turn back, which isn't like him at all."

_He's missing Sara_, he thought, a sad, wistful smile forming.

"I hope Sara gets better soon," Michelle said, drawing him out of his thoughts.

His eyes unexpectedly welled with tears. "Me too."

"I'm sure they're doing all they can for her."

Michelle's words, however well-meant, were of no comfort. "I'll call again later," he said, his voice choked up with emotion.

The day of the fire he'd left Sara's apartment happy and relaxed, untroubled and unknowing. He'd been off the previous night, while Sara had worked. She'd clocked off on time, and after their walk at the park he and Hank had picked up to-go breakfasts to eat back at her place. They'd pulled in her car lot at the same time she had, parking alongside one another. They'd been laughing, he recalled now, Sara regaling him of the details of a particularly bizarre case days were working on as the trio made their way up to her apartment.

Little did he know it would be for the last time. With a sigh, he put his cell away, sat back in the seat and briefly closed his eyes, ready for the wait.

The mood couldn't have been lighter and more carefree that morning. Sara had jumped in the shower while he laid out breakfast and Hank made himself comfortable on his favourite blanket by the window. When he finished in the kitchen he went to the bedroom, picked up her work clothes off the end of the bed and tossed them in the laundry basket. The bathroom door was ajar, and the sound of Sara's happy humming as she showered made him smile.

His smile turned mischievous, then downright naughty as an idea formed in his mind. Breakfast could wait; after all, it only needed heating up. And he wasn't due at his mother's for another few hours. Why not share in Sara's shower, especially if she was to take ages about it? And if one thing led to another then…who was he to complain? Quickly, he undid a couple of buttons off his shirt before he slipped it and his T-shirt off over his head, pulled at the buckle of his belt to release it so he could pop the button off and unzip his jeans. His boxers and socks came off next, as he hopped on one foot and then the other to the bathroom.

Her back to the shower door, Sara stood under the spray. Both arms were up, her hands massaging and rinsing shampoo out of her hair. Her head was bent forward and slightly to the side, exposing the pale freckled skin of her neck and shoulders. His heartbeat quickened as he felt the stirrings of his lust for her. The tip of his tongue came out, licking his bottom lip in anticipation. His eyes followed through the glass door the downward path of the soap as it slid down her shoulders and back, gathering in the curve of her spine down to her bottom and long legs.

As noiselessly as he could, he opened the shower door and slipped inside the cubicle. Closing the door behind him, he had no choice but to press himself and his erection to her. Sara tensed, but only briefly, before her body relaxed and she made to turn around. Strong hands on her waist made sure she stayed with her back to him. Warm water poured down over them, but it only made the experience more exciting, more enticing.

Swallowing back his arousal, Grissom dipped his head, then brought his mouth down to her nape and gently trailed kisses behind her ear and all the way round to her throat, in turn kissing, nibbling and licking the water flowing down her skin. Sara's body opened as she let out a small breathless gasp, in surprise maybe, but also sheer pleasure and abandon. While his lips tasted her skin, his hands roamed all around her waist and pubic area, before moving up to her breasts and stroking lightly over the nipples, already pert, ready to be teased. And God, would he tease them.

Sara's body's instinctive and intimate reaction was fuel to his passion. She trusted him implicitly, as he did her. She made him feel bold in a way he'd never felt with women before, and he knew he loved her in a way he'd never loved anyone before. He just wanted to take her, there and then, from behind, but then she took the initiative, wrapping her arms back around him, her hands clasping his buttocks, pulling him closer until his erection twitched against her. One hand slid between them and she took hold of him, not so gently slipping him between her legs.

He felt a rush of desire so intense that for a second he thought his legs would buckle under him. His moan, a low sound that came from deep within, came loud and unrestrained. Sara turned her face toward him, her mouth opening, seeking his, while she writhed herself against him. She wanted him as much as he did her. When her mouth failed to connect, she tried turning in his arm, but he held her fast, pressing her body firmly against his, keeping her in place. He needed to take control again and slow things down, or she'd have him over the edge before he was ready to.

Sara pushed the lever to the wall, turning the water off, the sudden silence seemingly amplifying the sound of their ragged breathing. One hand moved to cup her breast while the other snaked down her side, over the curve of her stomach, to the soft triangle of hair between her legs. They parted for him willingly, as a gasp left her lips and he felt her melt at the slow and gentle touch of his hands. Giving her pleasure, and hearing her _take_ pleasure, was such a turn on for him, that it took all his strength and self-control not to finish it there and then.

"Mr Grissom?"

Grissom woke up with a start, a kink in his neck and a flush in his cheeks. Dr Alvarez stood in front of him, and quickly he pushed to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said, and cleared his throat, sheepish at being caught napping, but sheepish too because of where his longing had taken him. "I work nights and…" with a sigh he gave his head a shake to clear the fog in his brain and made himself meet the doctor's gaze, "How's Sara?"


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This one is a little short, well, quite a bit short by my standards, but I felt the break a natural place to end the chapter. I'm sure you'll disagree. Do leave a review, please; they are a tremendous source of ideas and encouragement. Thanks!

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><p>"How's Sara?" Grissom asked.<p>

"She's doing okay," Dr Alvarez replied warmly. He was wearing blue scrubs and a tired smile, and Grissom knew that like him he'd been up all night. The doctor opened his hand, indicating Grissom should sit back down, and when Grissom did took the seat next to him. "The chest X-ray confirmed the pulmonary oedema," he went on, matter-of-fact, turning his body round a little so he could look at Grissom as he spoke, "which is what caused her to go into respiratory distress. We acted fast, and no long term damage was done."

Grissom breathed a deep sigh of relief and nodded his head.

"We aspirated the excess fluid that had accumulated in her lungs―"

"Did you have to intubate?" Grissom cut in.

"We did. We had no choice but to insert a tube down her throat in order to carry out the procedure, and intubating meant we could do it the most efficiently and with the least amount of discomfort. We're hoping that within the next few hours Sara will take over breathing from the machine and we'll be able to extubate**.**"

"You're hoping?"

"She will," the doctor said confidently, and paused to give Grissom a few seconds to digest his words. "We knew it was coming, Mr Grissom, which is why we kept her in."

Grissom nodded his head forlornly. "Was she in any pain?"

"Not during the procedure, no. She was sedated; she still is. But the respiratory distress itself would have been a very frightening experience for her." Dr Alvarez reached over and patted his hand to Grissom's shoulder warmly. "You can relax now, the worst of it is over," he said with a smile.

"Is it?"

"I think so, yes."

Grissom sighed, then gave an accepting nod, tried a smile to show his gratitude.

"You should start to see a marked improvement in her condition as soon as tomorrow, but for the time being she needs complete bed rest. I understand that Sara has a lot of friends, _concerned_ friends – and friends are important don't get me wrong – but right now I must limit her visits to close family only."

Grissom swallowed back his disappointment. "I understand. I'll spread the word."

"Tell them to wait until she's home to visit. It shouldn't be more than a few days."

_Home_, he thought with a pang of sadness. She didn't have a home to go to right now, but he hoped that in time she would make a home with him. "That won't come soon enough," he said, mustering a small smile of relief.

"Would you like to go and see her?" the doctor then asked. "She should be back in her room by now."

"But I thought…you said…"

The doctor's brow rose. "You're family, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"Then, would you like to see her?"

"Yes, I would," Grissom replied, quickly standing up, "very much so."

With a smile, the doctor too pushed to his feet. "But remember she's sedated. She probably won't wake for a while."

"That's okay," Grissom said. "I think this visit is more for me than for her."

The doctor's smile widened. "I understand. But if she does, wake up I mean, she mustn't try to talk and you must call for one of us at once." He paused, met Grissom's eye dead on. "And I meant what I told you yesterday," he said, adding when Grissom stared blankly back at him, "holding hands is still positively encouraged."

Grissom's expression brightened. "Thanks, Doctor."

Doctor Alvarez patted Grissom on the arm one last time before he went on his way and Grissom quickly headed to Sara's room. Blowing out a breath, he pushed the door open and went in before noiselessly shutting the door after him. Electrodes, wires and tubes hooked Sara to the various machines and monitors. She looked peaceful now as she slept, but despite his relief he couldn't help hurt at how scared she would have been when she found herself unable to breathe for the second time in a few days.

Blinking, he covered the distance to the bed and brought a shaky hand to his face, trying to rub the weariness off. With a sigh, he lifted his hand to her face and lightly traced his fingers over the ridges and hollows of her cheek.

"Oh, honey," he said in a fraught whisper, stroking his hand to her hair now, "You've got to stop doing this to me. I don't think my heart can take much more."

He pulled a chair and sat down and watched her sleep. He wouldn't stay long, he should really go and fetch Hank, go on a long walk to clear his mind and then catch a few hours' sleep before he came back. With a little luck, Sara would be awake by then, and maybe up to talking a little.

"Did I make a mistake?" she'd asked him the previous day. "Did I make a mistake coming out of the apartment? Should I have stayed put and waited for help to come?"

"Don't second guess yourself," he'd replied, thinking that yes, she'd have been fine if she'd waited. "With hindsight we'd all do everything very differently."

He'd pondered his reply a lot since, and thought that indeed there was a lot he would do differently with the benefit of hindsight – starting with his relationship with Sara. He certainly wished he were less of a coward and had taken his chance with her from the start. But would it have worked as well as it was doing now? Had he been emotionally ready to commit himself then, like he was doing now? Had Sara? He wasn't sure.

This last year dating Sara taught him a lot about being a man, about understanding and acknowledging the kind of man he wanted to be, and about trying to be that man for her. Professionally he had it figured out, but personally, emotionally, it was harder. The parameters kept changing, they never stayed the same. He didn't get it right all of the time, sometimes still prioritising work, or the wrong people. But he was learning; he was trying. He was trying to be that man for her.

No one could accuse him of not trying.

"I almost killed a woman today on my way over to you," he found himself telling her, speaking the words in a quiet, introspective way. "I was so caught up in my own thoughts, in my own pain, I wasn't paying attention. And there she appeared, out of nowhere, crossing the street right in front of me. I don't know how I managed to stop in time." He sighed. "I've got to get a grip, Sara. I've got to get a hold of myself."

He reached over and touched her hand, then took it in his and played with her fingers as he spoke. "Jim may have found a solution to our living arrangements," he said, and glancing up at her face smiled. "He thought you could stay at his while you recuperate, you know, just until you get back to work and everything goes back to normal."

He watched her intently, searching her face for even a hint of a reaction, but of course there was none. "I mean, I don't like it," he continued in the same quiet voice, "and I don't want you to think the idea came from me, but it kind of makes sense, don't you think?" With a shrug, he lowered his eyes to the entwined hands. A sad smile formed on his face, and he looked back up.

"The guys, they'll want to visit you, some of the lab techs too. Everyone's been asking after you, passing on good wishes. They all care so much, Sara, it's…" groping for the right word, he sighed and lifted his shoulder again, "humbling, overwhelming even. I know they mean well, but it kind of makes me uncomfortable. I just don't know how to respond, afraid I'd let my guard down and something slip." He chuckled softly. "I just tell them to tell Greg, or Nick or Catherine, that they'll pass on the good wishes to you. I wish it wasn't so."

He fell silent and pensive, as he stared at the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, its effect lulling and soothing, almost dulling. Briefly he closed his eyes, nodding off.

"As I said, it'll only be short-term," he said, abruptly jerking awake. "I mean, when you're back at work and things have settled down then I'd still like for you to move into the condo with me and Hank. You got to know I mean that. We can make a home of it, you know? Make it more us, than just me."

When his eyes drifted shut again of their own accord, he didn't fight it. Unbeknown to him, some time later, the hospital room door opened, and someone came in. The intense look of surprise on that person's face soon made way to a look of deep affection as they watched the touching scene in front of them – Grissom asleep in the chair at Sara's bedside, with his hand resting on top of hers on the bed.

Without a word or sound, the visitor closed the distance to the pair, and after a moment's hesitation briefly rested their hand on Grissom's shoulder – whether to alert him to their presence or as a simple show of affection wasn't clear – while giving Sara a fond smile. When Grissom didn't wake, merely lifting his hand to scratch at his cheek and mumbling unintelligently in his sleep, the visitor turned on their heels and as noiselessly as they'd entered left the room.


	12. Chapter 12

Grissom's speed was constant and dead on the limit. His eyes were on the road; his hands at the now recommended nine and three on the steering wheel, as he headed south on the I-15 to the unincorporated community of Sloan on the southeast edge of Las Vegas. Sloan Canyon National Conservation Area includes the black volcanic mountains and ridges that can be seen from most parts of Las Vegas, and is famous for its spectacular scenery, amazing petroglyphs – rock engravings dating back to around 6000 years ago – and native cultural site.

On any other day, Grissom would be glad for the trip, would be taking in the majestic beauty all around, but not today. Today, he felt frustrated and annoyed as he drove, a task he'd normally find calming and absorbing. He'd only been at Sara's bedside a short while when the call had come in, his cell vibrating impatiently, incessantly in his pocket. Remembering he was on call, he'd had no choice but to answer the phone. He'd been glad to see Sara off the ventilator, but frustratingly for him she'd been sleeping when he got there, and sleeping when he'd left.

Male DB found in the conservation area some way off the beaten track. Just what Grissom needed – a hike out in the hot desert. He'd just had time to pop to the lab to pack his kit into a backpack, grab his walking gear and a supply of water before he was on his way. It was essential he got there with enough time to hike out to the scene, process it and then return to base with the body before night-time. He was taking the turn into the conservation area car lot when his cell rang. Glancing at the display, he parked his truck next to the coroner's and connected the call.

"Catherine," he said, "Thanks for calling back."

"Where are you? I can hardly hear you."

Grabbing his cell off the holder, Grissom stepped out of the truck. "Is it better now?"

"A little."

"I'm out at a scene in Sloan – in the Conservation Area." He reached inside the truck for his CSI ball cap and slipped it on. "Hiker found dead. According to the first responder, he's been here a while."

"You need backup?"

He moved to the trunk and opened it. "No. Should be straightforward enough, but I might not be back in time for shift."

"No problems."

He paused, then with a sigh sat down on the trunk ledge, toed off his shoes and wedging the phone between his shoulder and ear put his walking boots on. "If he's not needed out in the field, could you ask Greg to do a job for me?"

"Sure."

"Can you ask him to look into Heather Clarke's finances, previous employment, phone records…"

"You think she wasn't all she seemed?"

"Maybe," he replied in a sigh. "Brass spoke to her boyfriend and there are a few discrepancies." Briefly he explained about the positive tox screen and his and Brass's theory that Heather Clarke had a double life, and reiterated about Greg looking for anything supporting that theory.

"Well," Catherine said musingly, "the plot thickens."

"It does indeed."

"Have you been to see Sara at all today?"

Catherine's change of tack took him by surprise. "Didn't you get my text?" he tried.

"I did. I did. I was just wondering if you'd had more news since, that's all."

Grissom paused, pondered his answer carefully. "No," he said, strictly not a lie, "But as I said this morning the doctors were optimistic."

Catherine made a non-committal sound, or maybe it was just static.

A couple of men wearing park ranger uniforms came over to meet him at the truck, and he nodded that he was almost ready. "Cath, I have to go," he said, and disconnected the call.

The hike took nearly an hour and he was glad for the rangers' help carrying his gear. The body was hidden from view, fully dressed and mummifying as it sat against a large boulder with his backpack still slung over his shoulders. A canteen lay nearby, open and empty. Nothing looked to have been touched or stolen.

"His name is Michael Crawford, from Provo in Utah," David Phillips said, glancing up at him. "His ID was in the backpack's top pocket."

"He's a long way from home," Grissom remarked, and reaching for his bottle took a sip of water.

"First responder noticed the bloody forehead," David said, indicating a small patch of what looked like dry blood embedded in the dark leathery skin on the victim's forehead, "Which is why you're here!"

Grissom frowned at David's characteristic but peculiar excitement and, wondering whether the heat was getting to the assistant coroner, crouched down by the body before lifting his sunglasses to study the area in question. A simple fall that turned deadly, or foul play?

"Isn't this man's car in the lot?" he asked one of the rangers hovering nearby.

"Not that we've noticed."

"Well, he had to have gotten here somehow." Wincing as he stretched over to his backpack, Grissom opened it and reached for his camera.

"Do you ever tell lies?" David asked out of the blue, his tone musing.

Pausing, Grissom glanced at his colleague. "Are you talking to me?"

David looked up, pushed his glasses to the top of his nose and nodded his head, quietly waiting for an answer.

"Everybody does," he replied, turning back to his kit.

"I'm not talking about little white lies," David went on as he worked. "Just you know, do you think it's wrong to tell lies?"

Grissom frowned, then glanced at David again but the assistant coroner's attention was turned on the body. Was there more to this line of questioning than would first appear? "It depends," he replied, keeping his tone even and matter-of-fact. "Were you on the stand when you did?"

"No," David defended heatedly, his gaze snapping toward Grissom, "Of course not. I'd never…No, I―" With a shrug, he refocused on the body, "I went to the hospital today to see Sara and…"

"Oh, I'm sorry, David," Grissom cut in contritely, remembering he hadn't told David about the pulmonary oedema, "I didn't think to let you know. Sara…developed a pulmonary oedema overnight and went into respiratory distress this morning. But they dealt with it and she's fine now."

"I know, they told me." David paused, then sought Grissom's gaze. "When they said only family could visit, I said I was her brother."

Grissom could feel a muscle twitching nervously in his jaw. "Oh," he said, his eyes lowering to the camera in his hands.

"I mean, I wouldn't normally lie but I don't know…it just came out."

"Did you get to see her?" Grissom asked, careful not to let his mask slip.

"Briefly, but…she was sleeping."

Grissom nodded his head, and trying to play it cool moved over to the canteen. "I don't think anyone will mind this one lie, David," he said, feeling that David may be confiding in him because his conscience needed appeasing. He turned the camera on and photographed the container in situ before carefully picking it up.

"They said her boyfriend had been."

Grissom's heartbeat quickened. Could the hospital have told David who that boyfriend was? But if so, wouldn't David just ask him outright? Keeping his eyes focused on the bloody smudges on the canteen, he didn't reply.

"Did you know she had a boyfriend?" David tried again.

Grissom's eyes took on a distant turn, the canteen blurring in front of him, as he debated how to respond. His shoulder lifted in reply. "She…never mentioned anyone." Was his lie worse than David's, he wondered? Needing to change topic of conversation, he lifted the canteen in the assistant coroner's eye line. "I see bloody fingerprints."

David's gaze stayed on Grissom for a beat before slowly averting to the canteen. "The victim's?"

"I'll let you know in due course."

Grissom took multiple shots of the surrounding area and, after giving instructions to the two rangers that had walked with him as to what to search for, set about looking for evidence that would prove, or disprove, that a crime had been committed. As he worked, quickly but methodically, Grissom couldn't help taking note of the wilderness all around.

It reminded him of the trip to the red mountains of Red Rock Canyon he'd taken Sara on when they'd first begun dating. He'd taken his courage in both hands and had kissed her for the very first time then, properly kissed her, Hank joining in from the backseat. A smile formed at the recollection. Maybe that was what they could do to celebrate their first anniversary, he mused, take a trip back there and maybe even camp overnight. With a little luck, the pool and waterfall wouldn't be completely dry.

It was nearing eleven pm when he finally made it back to the lab and logged in his measly evidence. His search for clues had yielded nothing bar the bloody fingerprints on the canteen. Grissom theorised that the victim had fallen over the treacherous and uneven terrain, hitting his head before taking shelter in the shade of the boulder to catch his breath.

Maybe he'd felt unwell. Feeling a trickle of blood on his forehead, he'd brought his fingers to it and then drank from the canteen, transferring the blood. The autopsy should tell them COD, but he suspected cardiac arrest brought upon by heatstroke and dehydration. The lack of a vehicle in the lot still troubled him, but the victim could have hitched a ride. Still, the fresh air had done Grissom good. He felt tired, but rejuvenated. He just hoped that next time Sara would be with him.

"Grissom!"

Grissom turned his head at the mention of his name, but carried on walking.

"I've been looking for you."

"I've been out at a scene, Greg."

Clasping a file to his chest, Greg bounded over, falling into step with Grissom as the latter strode into the break room to make himself a coffee.

"Have you got something for me?" Grissom asked, glancing over his shoulder as he poured himself a cup.

"Yes, I have," Greg said, sounding pleased with himself.

Greg sat down at the table and opened the file while Grissom rummaged in one of the cupboards next to the fridge for some food. He found a packet of Chips Ahoy! chocolate chip cookies past their best by date, but he opened it anyway before joining Greg at the table.

"Neither phone records nor employment history showed anything probative," Greg said, not wasting time, while Grissom bit into a stale cookie. He paused and motioned for the packet, and with a twist of his mouth Grissom slid it over to the young CSI who took one. "But I got lucky with her credit card. It was used to withdraw five hundred dollars from an ATM machine outside the Wells Fargo branch in Boulder City _one_ hour after the fire broke out."

Grissom's brow rose in interest, and he stopped chewing.

"It's not been used since," Greg said, pre-empting his boss's next question.

"Did you find out if the ATM had CCTV?"

"I did, and it does. I called Boulder City PD, and they're headed there as soon as the bank opens."

Grissom reached for the cookies and took a second one. "So, maybe we're looking at robbery as the motive for Heather Clarke's death."

"Yeah, but five hundred dollars isn't much for someone's life. What else got stolen?"

"That we may never know." Cup of coffee and cookie in hand, Grissom pushed to his feet. "That's great work, Greg," he said, grabbing the rest of the cookies as he walked out of the break room.

"Hey! Grissom, those were mine!"

The rest of shift went by slowly, Grissom stuck at his desk doing paperwork while the various members of his team came and went, sporadically updating him on whichever case they were currently working on. Having promised Hank a long walk, Grissom was packing away when Brass came into his office and wearily slumped down into the chair across from him. Noticing the open packet of cookies on the edge of the desk, he reached over and took one. Grissom's brow rose in discontent.

"So, I met with Heather Clarke's parents yesterday," Brass said, as he chewed. "They IDed their daughter's body, and no surprises there. I asked if they knew where Leah was – that's the younger sister – but they've lost touch." He wiped his fingers on his pant leg and reaching into his inner breast pocket removed a creased photograph in a clear evidence bag he held out to Grissom. "They gave me this. Heather's the one on the left."

Grissom pursed his mouth. "They're dead ringers for each other."

"Hard to tell them apart, I know. My contact in Reno says Leah's done a runner, that she left owing a ton of rent money to her landlord. Landlord says she packed up some of her stuff and he's not seen her – or her car – in close to two weeks. BOLO's out on the car, a 1998 Honda Civic, both in Reno and here. Maybe when her luck ran out, she came to see her sister, asked for help and…"

"You thinking _she_ killed her sister?"

"I don't know what I'm thinking. All I know is that the fire's been all over the news and she hasn't come forward."

"Well, Heather's credit card was used in Boulder City _one_ hour after the fire started. If the sister was in Vegas, she certainly had means and opportunity."

Brass reached for the packet of cookies and took the last one. "You mind if I…?"

Grissom pulled a face, but nodded his head nevertheless and reached for the bottle of single malt he kept in his bottom drawer while Brass wolfed down the cookie.

"I've finally managed to track down the tenants from apartment 2B, across from Sara's," Brass said, gratefully accepting the shot of whisky from Grissom. "Couple of guys living together, bikers." He took a sip to wash the cookie down. "They've been away at some meet down in New Mexico all week. Anyways, I'm in two minds whether to lay charges on them."

"They didn't start the fire," Grissom remarked, ever the pragmatist.

"They might as well have. If they hadn't been storing gasoline in the apartment Sara wouldn't be in the hospital now."

"Sara's going to be fine, Jim," he said in a reassuring tone. "Just out of interest, did you ask how much there was in the canisters?"

"Well, they say one was empty and the other only half-full, but who's to say?" Brass downed the rest of his whisky, checked his watch and then pushed to his feet. "You want to grab some proper breakfast somewhere? How long is it since you've had a good steak, huh?"

Grissom thought of Sara and smiled. "A while." He paused. "I promised Hank I'd take him on a long walk. He's a little…unsettled, you know, with everything that's happening. But…why don't you come with us to the park and then I'll cook us some breakfast?"

Brass pretended to mull it over. "You got steak?"

Grissom's smile widened. "I don't, but I'm sure you know where to get some."

It was mid-afternoon by the time he got to the hospital. Sara was sitting in bed, propped up against pillows and looking bright and alert. His face lit up, his heart lifting before sinking desolately when he realised she had company. Sara turned her head toward him. Her brow arched in a silent question, an amused smile tugging at her lips as she stared at him, speechless and rooted to the threshold.

Grissom's eyes flicked over to the visitor again whose features were a picture of virtue and innocence, but affection too, as she stared back. He could have been angry at the intrusion, but he wasn't. How could he be? Sara didn't seem to mind. With a sigh, he looked over at Sara again, his lips pinching as he lifted his shoulder in a helpless, but also apologetic shrug, before he let the door shut and fully made his way into the room.

"Mom," Grissom said, automatically accompanying the word with the corresponding sign. Leisurely, so as not to betray his feelings, he set the bag of clothes he'd washed and ironed and brought for Sara, as well as a few books, her iPod and a brand-new paper crane, on the end of the bed. "What are you doing here?"


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: In the story I allude to Grissom folding paper cranes. It comes from an ancient Japanese legend that promises that anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by a crane. Some stories believe you are granted eternal good luck, instead of just one wish, such as long life or recovery from illness or injury. This makes them popular gifts for special friends and family. Grissom is a sweet guy. ;-)

This is the last chapter until after the holidays. I hope you enjoy. And until then, have a great Christmas and a happy New Year. And thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing and your continual support. It's much appreciated.

Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année!

* * *

><p>Betty was sitting daintily at the edge of the chair and remained so. "I came to visit Sara," she signed back, with a smile at Sara, before meaningfully adding as she twice interlocked her index fingers, "your <em>friend<em>."

"I can see that," he signed quickly back. "But how did you…" He gave his head a shake and glanced at Sara, "Never mind how you got in," he said impatiently, but not signed, much to Sara's amusement.

Only then remembering he hadn't properly greeted her, he covered the two steps to Sara and with a soft smile his mother couldn't see leaned down for a self-conscious peck on the cheek. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly, as he pulled back.

With a smile, Sara nodded her head.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he continued. "If I had, then maybe I could have stopped her."

"It's fine," Sara said, smiling as she looked toward Betty watching their interaction closely, "Your mother and I…just talked a little." And then just as casually, as if it was no big deal, "She's…offered me a place to stay."

Grissom frowned, not at the offer – his mother was nothing if not charitable – but at the fact that the two women had managed to converse at all. He was going to ask how when he heard the flush go in the adjoining bathroom. He turned around just as the door opened and Edith, a woman he'd met a couple of times before and who sometimes interpreted for his mother, came out, smiling brightly when she noticed him standing there.

"Gil, hello," Edith spoke and signed.

"Edith," Grissom greeted with words and his hands, and then remembering his manners, "Sara, this is one of my mother's friends in Vegas. She interprets for her."

"I know," Sara replied cheerfully.

"Edith, this is Sara…" He paused, uncertain how to go on.

Betty's brow rose behind her glasses. "Your girlfriend?" she prompted with her hands.

Grissom couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips as he glanced at Sara. _Girlfriend_ didn't cut it, but he couldn't find a better sign. "She's more than that," he signed back to his mother, this time without speaking the words out loud, "and you know it."

The smile on Betty's face was wide and loving as she looked from Grissom to Sara and back again. "I'm happy for you," she signed finally, and stood. "It was a long time coming."

Grissom's lips twisted wryly, and he scoffed.

"What did your mother say?" Sara asked, her eyes flicking between mother and son inquiringly, suspiciously.

Betty turned a questioning face toward her son, and Grissom relayed Sara's question. "Tell her the truth. That meeting her has made an old woman happy."

Grissom interpreted his mother's words, and with a wide smile Sara nodded her head. Then with a frown she turned toward Grissom. "How do you sign thank you?"

Grissom brought a flat hand to his chin, touched his fingertips to his lips before lowering them, and Sara replicated the sign perfectly. Betty closed the distance to her son and patted his cheek warmly, an affectionate gesture Grissom awkwardly turned his face away from. With a knowing smile, Betty turned to Edith who was standing slightly back and gave an imperceptible nod of her head.

"Well, it's time we went," Betty signed. "We'll let you two catch up." She turned toward Sara with a smile while Grissom nodded his head gratefully. "It was nice to meet you, Sara," she signed, and after Grissom interpreted Sara returned the sentiment. "And do think about my offer. It would be no trouble at all. Gil's place isn't big enough, especially with that slobbery beast of his."

Grissom twisted his mouth in annoyance. Turning a deeply confused expression on him, Sara waited for an explanation, but she didn't get one.

"Thank you," Grissom said and signed, "But it won't be necessary. Sara will be staying with a friend of ours."

"Will I?" Sara asked, clearly perplexed.

Grissom turned toward her. "Jim offered and…can we talk about it when they're gone?"

Laughing, Betty turned to Edith. "Let's go now," she signed, "I think we're in the way."

Betty opened her arms out to hug her son, before moving over to Sara and doing the same, and then the two women left. Grissom let out the long breath he didn't know he'd been holding and shook his head in disbelief.

"Honey, I'm sorry," he said, and moved over to Sara to give her the warm hug and kiss he hadn't been able to give her earlier. "I promise I didn't know she would ambush us like that."

Sara smiled. "Well, she didn't really ambush us, did she? And at least that way I finally got to meet her."

Grissom's mouth twisted at the dig. "And?"

"You were right, she's a force to be reckoned with, but hopefully I made a good impression."

Grissom's expression softened with love. "Oh, I know you did. What isn't there to love about you?"

Sara's eyes narrowed, and he knew she was trying to figure out whether he was teasing her or not. He was dead serious. He took off his jacket, then picked up her bag and opened it, before carefully taking out her iPod and a Hershey's bar which he passed on to her with a wink. Immediately, she set the iPod on the bedside table and pulling back the silver wrapper on the treat took a hearty bite.

"How did you know?" she purred, her mouth full.

"Lucky guess?" he said, laughing, and took out the paper crane before staring at it musingly. "Catherine found your other one, the one in your bedside table." He looked up and smiled. "So I thought a new one was in order."

Sara stopped chewing abruptly, and he held out the crane to her. Her gaze lingering on his face, she took it.

"There's a long way to go before I fold one thousand," he added with a sheepish shrug.

Sara glanced up from the crane, and noticing the tears glistening in her eyes, he sighed and motioned for her to shift up the bed a little so he could perch on the edge next to her.

"It's going to be okay," he said as he sat down before affectionately touching his head to hers. "The doc said the worst was over. You'll be home soon."

She turned toward him, nodded her head and with a tired smile leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about my mother showing up like that," he said again, worried by this sudden change of mood. "Had she and Edith been here long?"

"I'm not sure," Sara replied quietly. "I was taking a nap, and when I woke up there they were, the two of them signing back and forth like there's no tomorrow."

He smiled. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It didn't feel awkward at all. Your mother's got a very expressive face; it speaks as much as her signs."

"Facial expressions are an integral part of sign language," Grissom explained. "Sometimes no sign is needed, the face says it all. I think maybe she feels relieved," he added after a while in a soft chuckle.

"Relieved?" Sara turned toward him with a frown. "How?"

Sheepishly avoiding her eyes, he shrugged his shoulder. "Well, I kind of think she…you know…maybe wondered if I might…be a closet gay man."

Sara's lips pinched, but it didn't stifle her amusement or the coughing fit that ensued.

"Don't laugh. It's true," he said, as concerned he rubbed his hand to her back, adding when she threw him a look that told him to pull the other one, "I'm dead serious. Never married, I haven't even brought a girl home in thirty years. If I didn't know better, I'd be wondering myself."

"Did she ever say anything?" Sara asked, when she recovered her powers of speech.

"She never asked me outright, but I know the thought crossed her mind."

Sara's lips pinching again, she touched her hand to his face. "She came to check me out, didn't she?"

"Oh, yeah." His smile faded as his expression darkened suddenly. "I was finishing her ceiling when Jim called to tell me about the fire and she saw how I reacted. How worried I was."

Tears filled Sara's eyes and quickly she turned away to hide them.

"Hey," he said soothingly, kicking himself for mentioning the fire and reminding her of her ordeal, "It's all right, I'm not gay. I swear I haven't been faking it."

Sara smiled through her tears, but it didn't conceal the lingering pain in her eyes.

With a sigh, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and held her to him, hoping she could find strength and comfort in him. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked after a moment.

Softly, she shook her head. "I'm fine." She shrugged, then let out a wheezy breath and wiped at her eyes. "It's just that seeing your mother here, concerned and caring…well, it made me think of mine."

"Do you want to call her?" he asked, shifting slightly so he could make eye contact.

"No," Sara said, her head shaking adamantly. "No. I don't want to call her." Forcing a smile, she took his hand in hers and played with his fingers. "I'm fine. I'm just tired and… I'm fine."

Grissom dipped his head as he sought her gaze. "You sure?"

"Sure. Besides, who needs my mother when I've got yours, huh?"

"I hope you're not thinking of saying yes to her offer."

"How come?"

"I don't know," he replied. "It'd be kind of awkward, wouldn't it? I mean you can't sign, and I wouldn't be able to be there twenty-four-seven."

A wide smile broke across her face. "Relax," she said. "I'm not going to say yes. But it was sweet of her to offer." She paused and sighed. "What's changed your mind?"

Grissom frowned. "About what?"

"Me staying at your place."

"Oh. I haven't changed my mind, not at all," he denied fervently, "but Jim kind of put me on the spot. He offered in front of everyone, and maybe it makes sense…just, you know, for a few days until you get back to work. That way people can visit you. And he's happy for Hank and me to stay over. After that, mi casa es su casa."

Sara was smiling. "You've got it all figured out, haven't you?"

"I have indeed." Doubt crept into his mind and he frowned. "I mean, only if that's what you want too. There's no pressure. I just assumed that…"

"I want to," Sara said, covering his mouth with her hand and cutting off his protestations. "Very much so."

His face softened, his heart swelling with love and happiness, as he looked into her eyes and saw the truth of her words. "Me too," he said, and slowly they leaned towards each other and sealed their agreement with a kiss.

"Talking about getting back to work," Sara said as afterwards they sat with their eyes closed, resting. "You think we could make that sooner rather than later?"

Grissom opened one eye. "Nope. You'll take off whatever the doc says you need off. No less."

Sara sighed, but didn't push the subject, and he went back to resting. "You think you could help me shower? I need someone to hold the oxygen tank while I wash my hair. It feels…grubby. _I_ feel grubby."

Grissom's eyes snapped open. "Sure," he said brightly and got off the bed. "I brought you some more clean clothes." He picked up her overnight bag and took out a clean T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants for her to wear.

"You washed and ironed all my clothes?"

"Well, not all of them," he answered sheepishly before smiling broadly and waggling a brow. "But I'm getting there."

Sara was finishing up in the bathroom when Grissom's phone beeped with a text message. He located his jacket and patted its pockets, finally finding his phone and reading the message – a succinct _911_, from Greg. His interest piqued, he glanced toward the bathroom door, which was open a crack, before moving to the window to call Greg.

"Grissom, that was quick!"

"Well, you said 911."

"It was Heather Clarke," Greg said excitedly, "the woman who withdrew the five hundred bucks in Boulder City."

Grissom squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "That's not possible, Greg. Heather Clarke's in the morgue." No sooner had the words passed his lips than he glanced round toward the bathroom to make sure Sara wasn't standing there, listening. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, "It can't be her. It's got to be her sister, Leah. They're very much alike – in looks anyway." And briefly he explained about what Brass had told him, winding down the conversation when he heard the toilet flush. "Good work. Let Brass know."

"I already have," Greg replied.

The bathroom door opened fully, and carrying her small oxygen tank Sara stepped out. After a quick "See you tonight," he disconnected the call and put the phone away.

"Greg?" Sara asked, joining him at the window.

Grissom's brow furrowed. "How did you know?"

"Your voice takes on a particular tone when you speak to him."

"It does?"

Sara nodded her head, but the smile on her lips belied her disapproval. "You need to be nice to him."

"I _am_ nice to him."

Sara's shoulder lifted. "Nicer then."

Grissom's mouth twisted in a pout.

"What did he want?"

Grissom's gaze snapped up to Sara's. His shoulder lifted, feigning casualness. "He…had some developments on a case we're working on."

"The fire?"

Unwilling to lie, Grissom slowly nodded his head. "We think it could have been started to cover a murder. Heather Clarke's, that's—"

"My neighbour. I remember her now." Sara turned to the window and gazed out at the scenery beyond through the blinds. "She worked odd shifts, like me, and we'd sometimes be doing laundry at the same time. She was nice, pretty."

Grissom walked up behind her and laid his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sara."

She turned her face up to him and nodded her head. "Do you know who did it?"

His shoulder lifted. "We're not sure. But Greg came up with some evidence that her sister was involved."

"I met her," Sara said, her brow creasing, "Last week, or the week before maybe, just in passing as I collected my mail. She was staying with Heather."

"Well, she's in the wind now, but Jim's got a BOLO out on her car. It's only a matter of time before we find her."

Sara nodded, then moved to the bed and sat down on it, placing the oxygen tank by her side.

Grissom watched her with concern; she was looking tired again. "You want me to call someone?"

Giving him a wan smile, Sara shook her head. Then she kicked her slippers off and brought her legs up, and Grissom helped her lie down on the bed. He checked the time on his watch, and since he had a whole hour until he'd need to leave reached into her overnight bag for his copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and after making himself comfortable on the chair by her side continued to read from where he'd left off the last time he'd read to her.

Doctor Alvarez had said she could go home the day after next. It couldn't come fast enough.


	14. Chapter 14

Grissom drove straight to the long-term parking at McCarran Terminal three and after waiting for the SUV in front of him to proceed through stopped at the barrier. He powered down the window and pressed the button for the attendant.

"Gil Grissom," he called loudly when the fuzzy voice of the attendant came on, and lifted his ID badge at the camera, "Las Vegas Crime Lab. I've come to process an abandoned car. A blue Honda Civic," he picked up his notes, "Registration, 617-VBR."

There was a pause, a lot of static. "Follow the 'diamond' symbol to the west side of the parking garage, use the left hand-side lane at the entrance and head for the second story. PD's at the scene. You can't miss it."

Grissom knew that the 'diamond' side of the parking garage was generally used for domestic flights and he wondered whether this tidbit of knowledge was pertinent in this case. "Thanks," he said when the barrier lifted, and powered his window back up to keep the heat out.

Brass was at the scene, leaning against his cruiser and talking to two uniformed officers. He'd abandoned his suit jacket and tie, and wore his shirt open at the neck and the sleeves rolled up as far as they could go. Grissom pulled up, stopping perpendicular to the rear of the Honda, and got out. Brass came to greet him as he got his kit out of the trunk.

"I'm sorry for the bad timing," the captain said, "But I thought you'd want to do it yourself."

"You were right."

"Sara okay?"

"She's down to counting hours now, rather than days."

Brass smiled. "I bet."

"So," Grissom said, nodding at the car. "Another piece of the puzzle falls into place."

Brass scoffed. "I wouldn't mind so much if we knew exactly how many pieces there were." He sighed. "I've asked security to provide the lab with CCTV footage from all three entrances to the lot on the evening of the fire."

"Widen the time frame to the morning after just to be on the safe side."

Brass nodded. "I'm just a little puzzled as to why Leah would have driven to Boulder City to withdraw cash with her sister's card, and then driven back to Vegas to dump the car. It doesn't make sense."

Grissom shrugged and walked round the car. Nothing evident stood out. "Maybe she got curious and came back to check on her work, and then used the money to buy herself a plane ticket and get the hell out of dodge."

"I'll check with the airline companies when we're done here," Brass said. "But that still doesn't answer the question of why she'd have bothered driving all the way to Boulder City in the first place."

Grissom pondered that fact. "Maybe we're looking at it the wrong way and she dumped the car first, then headed to Boulder City. Maybe she never got on a flight."

"One hour's a tight window in which to do that."

"It is, but it's not impossible. Or she wasn't working alone. CCTV should give us an exact time and hopefully a little more." Grissom opened his field case and took out a pair of latex gloves he snapped on. "You took a look at the car?"

"And contaminate what little evidence there might be? You know me better than that." Brass paused, shrugged his shoulder. "I did take a little peek through the window though, and noticed the straw in the cup on the drinks holder. That should give us _some_ DNA."

Grissom looked at Brass from the corner of his eye and smiled. "Do you ever miss working at the lab?"

"No," Brass replied categorically, and Grissom's smile widened.

"Sir?"

Brass looked over his shoulder and nodded at the officer that had called him while Grissom set to work, starting with popping the trunk open. Aside from the usual paraphernalia it was empty. Then he began processing the exterior of the car, taking photographic evidence before printing all the handles and other pertinent areas, collecting a little soil material from the tyre treads, finishing just as the tow truck that would take the Honda back to CSI arrived.

"So, what time should I expect you?" Brass asked, as the tow truck left with the Civic safely secured on the back of it.

Grissom turned to look at Brass. "Expect me?" he asked, confused.

"You and Sara. Tomorrow."

"Oh." Grissom shrugged. "I said I'd pick Sara up at lunchtime. Give the doc enough time to do his final checks and get the paperwork done."

Brass nodded. "Come round for lunch. The house is all straightened out, and I even got some food in. Healthy stuff too."

The corner of Grissom's mouth curled up. "You're still sure…about Sara staying with you?"

Brass watched his friend carefully. "You wish I hadn't offered, don't you?"

Grissom shrugged. "It's for the best, I know, but…I wish she was coming home with me and Hank, that's all."

Brass paused, nodded his head. "It's serious, isn't it? Between the two of you, I mean."

Grissom gave a soft smile. "As serious as it gets."

The look on Brass's face was warm and caring as he patted Grissom on the arm. "I'm looking forward to having her stay."

"Don't get used to it." For years Grissom had lived alone and been quite contented, but now he couldn't imagine not having Sara and Hank around. "You should get yourself a pet," he said, moving away to pack his gear back into the trunk of his truck.

Brass burst out laughing. "A pet isn't what I need, my friend. No. What I need is a good woman, and they're in short supply." He paused. "You know, I was thinking, I don't mind if Sara uses my house address for postal purposes afterwards, you know, when she goes back to work and moves in with you. It's a stupid rule not to allow co-workers to date."

"Well, it's not the co-worker bit that's the problem."

"Still."

Grissom lowered his gaze, then brought it back up to Brass's face. "I'm thinking of stepping down."

Brass's eyes widened. "What? From your supervisory role?" Grissom nodded, and Brass blew a breath. "Wow. That's big."

Grissom's shoulder lifted. Of course, he could try switching to days or swing shift supervisor if a position opened, but he hated the idea of not working alongside Sara and the different shift patterns would wreak havoc with their private life. "I never wanted to be supervisor in the first place," he said. "I kind of was pushed into the job, if you recall."

Brass laughed. "Best thing that happened to either of us."

Grissom smiled. Well, that was true, he thought. Sara would never have come to Vegas had it not been for Holly Gribbs dying and the subsequent reshuffling of the night shift.

"I made a lousy supervisor," Brass went on, still chuckling to himself.

"You weren't that bad."

Grissom returned to the lab to log in his evidence and by the time that was done it was almost time for shift. He sat behind his desk, caught up on memos and emails, assigned new cases to his team, and then with Nick's help set about processing the interior of Leah Clarke's Honda Civic. More prints were collected, as well as sweet, food and foil wrappers and a baggy of as yet unidentified blue pills.

"Sara sent me a text message yesterday," Nick said, as they filled in paperwork, "Said she was coming out of the hospital later today."

Grissom looked up at Nick over the top of his glasses and nodded his head.

"She asked how we were getting along without her. I think she misses us."

Grissom smiled. She does, he thought to himself.

"She's bummed she can't get back to work straightaway."

"It's for the best," Grissom said, keeping his voice neutral. "She needs to get her strength back first. It was a close shave."

Nick gave a thoughtful nod. "Warrick and I have a date with her this Saturday," he said, brightening up.

That was news to Grissom. "You have?" he said, frowning.

"Beer and Pizza. Well, root beer for Sara. Brass said it was okay. It's the start of college football season. Longhorns vs the Cowboys."

The pang of jealously, or was it insecurity and self-doubt, that reared its ugly head stung and had Grissom nod and return to his report with a sigh. Sara was missing her friends and wanted to spend time with them, which was normal he thought, but she could have mentioned it. The rest of shift went by at a snail's pace. Grissom checked on Archie a couple of times, but the A/V tech was making slow headway with the airport parking lot CCTV tapes.

He was working at his desk when with a knock on his office door Archie bounded in and handed him a grainy black and white still of the Honda Civic stopped at one of the barriers at the Paradise Road entrance. The date stamp was the day of the fire, the time 21.30 pm. The woman at the wheel was clearly visible and recognisable behind wide sunglasses, the passenger not so much. A wide smile formed on Grissom's face. Could Greg have been right?

"Thanks, Archie," he said, and picked up his desk phone to call DNA. "Wendy," he said when the tech picked up the phone, "When will the results come in for the bone marrow in the Heather Clarke's case?"

"A couple of days, Sir."

Grissom sighed. "I need them sooner than that." After disconnecting the call he rang Brass. "I've another two pieces to add to the puzzle," he said when the captain picked up.

"Well, I have one too," Brass said. "You first."

For the third day in a row, Grissom left the lab on time. The day was already warm despite the early hour, promising more temperatures in the high nineties. He picked up Hank from Michelle's, bought the day's paper and together they went for their long walk at the park. Back home, he made them some breakfast, which they ate in front of the television.

Grissom woke up some two hours later, startled and disoriented, his heart thumping in his chest. Hank was sound asleep at the other end of the couch. He'd been dreaming of Sara caught in that fire, struggling to make her way out, the outcome not so positive this time. Still groggy, he lowered his feet from the coffee table and checked the time, relieved to see he had another hour before he would need to head for the hospital to pick her up.

In his bedroom, he peeled his sweaty clothes off and jumped under the cooling and soothing spray of the shower. When he was ready, he threw a change of clothes in a bag, a few toiletries, his shaving kit, as well as Hank's things. He didn't think he would be able to spend the night – or the day – at Brass's place especially if Sara planned to have many visitors, but Hank would. He'd be good company for Sara, a welcome distraction, until she could get back to work and everything returned to normal.

When nearing one pm he finally got to the hospital, Sara was sitting at the edge of the bed, ready and waiting. She was looking bright but fed-up. Her bags sat already packed near the door. She looked up to him with a beaming smile, set down the magazine she'd been leafing through and got off the bed. "I thought you'd never get here," she said, moving to embrace him.

"I'm surprised you weren't waiting in the lobby," he laughed, and pressing a kiss to the top of her head held her to him.

"I worried I might miss you."

"You got everything?"

"I even picked up my prescription. Just let's get out of here. I need some fresh air."

Outside the hospital, Sara closed her eyes and blew out a deep breath, then winced at the harsh sunlight and turned her head away. Grissom set the two travel bags down at his feet.

"Here," he said, pulling his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and passing them to her. "You wait here while I go fetch the car."

"Gil, don't do this," she said, in a mild warning tone.

"Do what?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Treat me like an invalid."

"I'm not―"

"Oh, come on. You offer the carry the bags and I let you. Isn't that enough?" Sara lowered her voice a notch as an elderly couple walked past them into the building. "I didn't need the wheelchair just then, and I don't need you to fetch the car now."

Grissom sighed. "The doc said to take it easy and not do anything that's going to get you out of breath."

"No," Sara countered heatedly. "He said not to do anything strenuous, and to stop if I become breathless. That's not the same thing. He also said to get back to as normal a routine as possible." Grissom opened his mouth, and knowing he wasn't going to win this argument shut it again. Happy that she'd made her point, Sara donned the sunglasses and took a right turn down the footpath, muttering to herself, "I can walk to the damn car."

Grissom's expression brightened suddenly. "Sara?" he called, pinching his lips to suppress his smile, and when she turned round nodded his head in the opposite direction. "The car's this way."

A wide smile broke across Sara's face as head shaking she retraced her steps to him. "Don't say it."

Grissom cocked his brow, but wisely kept his mouth shut, and together they crossed two car lots over to where he'd parked the Prius. That way, he figured, if someone happened to drive past Brass's house and saw Sara's car on the drive rather than his own they wouldn't think anything of it.

"Hank can't wait to see you," he said, opening the door for Sara, and she got in. "He's at Jim's."

Sara sighed, nodded her head. "I can't wait for everything to get back to normal," she said, thoughtful.

Grissom watched her for a moment before he closed the door, walked round to the driver's side and got behind the wheel. "You heard the doc," he said, "a week and then you can get back to work."

"Yeah," Sara said, despondently, "lab work and light duties."

Grissom smiled and patted his hand to her leg. "The lab has missed you. I've missed you."

Sara gave him a happy smile. "Drive."

Grissom motioned for Sara to open the glove box, and without needed for him to elaborate she passed him his spare sunglasses. "Jim's making us lunch," he said as buckling up he started the engine.

"Do we have time to swing by my apartment on the way?"

Grissom eased a look in her direction. "Sara, I don't think―"

"I need to see for myself," she said, and Grissom knew not to insist.

Grissom slowed down as they neared her apartment building, then signalled and turned across the traffic into the parking lot, parked up and killed the engine. Sara was staring at the building, the downward curve of her mouth speaking louder than words ever could. He reached for her hand on her lap and squeezed it. With a sigh, Sara looked over at him and gave him a small smile.

"I guess it could have been a lot worse," she said, downcast.

Shifting round in his seat, Grissom nodded his head and wiped a gentle finger to the tear gathered in the corner of her left eye. They nodded their heads in silent agreement and Grissom started the car up again, headed to Brass.

"You okay?" he asked when he pulled along Brass's car on the driveway.

Mustering a smile, Sara nodded her head. With a heavy heart, Grissom released his seatbelt, then reached across to undo Sara's before leaning over her to roll it back into place, pausing for a second with his lips close to hers. He smiled at her, but thinking that Brass would have heard the car coming and was most probably watching kissed her softly on the cheek.

"We should head in," he said, "before Hank tears the place apart."

Grissom opened his door and was about to step out when Sara held him back by the shoulder. When frowning he turned toward her, she stretched over to him and her hand cupping his cheek kissed him softly on the lips. "Thank you," she said, smiling as she pulled back.

He joined her at the open trunk and took the bags she was pulling out from her, lifting his brow in a silent command when she resisted. The front door opened and Brass appeared, Hank slipping past him and tail wagging manically making straight for Sara. A wide smile on her face, Sara relinquished her hold on the bags, then crouched down and hugged and ruffled the Boxer's head, laughing and cooing as she returned his warm welcome.

Brass wore sweat pants, a New Jersey Devils jersey and a fond smile as he watched on. "Welcome to chez Jim," he said, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes making Grissom suddenly very wary.


	15. Chapter 15

"I made us some lunch," Brass said as he opened the front door and led them into the house. "I hope you're hungry."

"You're kidding me?" Sara exclaimed. Hank was still circling her legs joyfully, and she gently nudged him into the house. "I'm starving."

"Hospital food's the pits, huh," he said. "I remember it well."

Grissom brought up the rear, setting the bags to one side and closing the door. On habit both he and Sara took off their shoes. Grissom stood in white tennis socks and Sara barefoot. The television was tuned to a sports channel, the sound muted. Brass reached for the remote on the coffee table and turned it off.

"I made the guest room up for you," he said, looking at Sara. "There's plenty of towels in the closet in the bathroom. All clean," he added with a sly grin. "Anything else you need you just ask, or look around for. Just make yourself at home."

Sara smiled. "Thanks, Jim."

"Gil, you get the couch. It's not bad. I've slept on it a few times myself."

Grissom pursed his face, but didn't take the bait. He knew a few digs were to be expected. Sara pointed to the corridor. "I'll just go use the bathroom." She caught Grissom's eye, and he smiled at her. "Don't start without me."

"You remembered Sara's a vegetarian, right?" Grissom asked Brass as soon as she was out of earshot, Hank following in her wake.

"What. You mean to say she doesn't eat ribs?" Brass replied, deadpan.

Grissom let out a long suffering sigh.

"Relax. I got it all under control."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Grissom thought, but didn't say, as he followed his friend through to the kitchen. Delicious smells of Mexican food drifted up to him, and he lifted a brow, impressed. A plate of flour tortillas were waiting near the stove, ready to be warmed up and made into wraps. Bowls of mixed salad, guacamole, sour cream and grated cheese were laid out on the table that had been set for three, paper napkins and all. Brass hadn't done things in half.

Brass reached into the fridge, grabbed a couple of beers, handed one to Grissom. Grissom wiped his finger to the condensation on the bottle and twisted the cap before lifting the bottle at Brass and taking a long, quenching gulp. Brass did the same, then moved to the oven and dishcloth in hand took out a dish.

"Mexican bean chilli," Brass provided when mouth pursed favourably Grissom leaned forward to take a closer look, "made it from scratch. I hope Sara likes it."

Grissom felt a little aggrieved. If Brass could cook, how come he'd never cooked for him, when more than once he'd indulged for the captain?

Coming up behind him, Sara pulled the bottle out of his hand and took a sip of beer. "Just one," she told him in a whisper, on noticing his mildly reproachful expression, before handing the bottle back to him. "You've gone to a lot of trouble," she then said to Brass busy at the stove.

Brass looked over his shoulder and smiled. "I figured you'd be hungry. Come on, sit down, help yourselves while I heat these up."

Grissom and Sara did as bid while Hank sat on his hind legs at the captain's feet, nostrils flaring as he followed his every move, hoping for scraps.

"I'm going to look after you, kiddo," Brass said, skilfully sliding a warm tortilla out of the pan into Sara's plate. "So you'd better get used to it. Maybe then you'll decide to stay here with me for good."

Sara smiled, then glanced at Grissom, who was shaking his head at how obvious Brass was being. "Don't you even think about it," he told her with his eyes, and Sara's smile widened giddily. "I'm thinking fish," he said aloud, bringing his gaze back to Brass who was back at the stove.

"Fish?" both Brass and Sara repeated with evident confusion.

"For dinner?" Brass queried, and then addressing Sara over his shoulder, "You like fish, Sara? I can cook fish."

"As a pet," Grissom said.

Brass pulled a face, then the penny dropped and laughing he turned back to his cooking. "You can't cuddle up to fish."

"But they're low maintenance, or so I'm told."

"Oh, you think I can't do high maintenance, do you?" Brass retorted with surprise and not so adroitly dropped a warm tortilla onto Grissom's plate.

Sara's eyes went from Brass to Grissom and then Brass again, a silent question in them.

"Gil, here, is referring to a conversation we had yesterday," Brass explained, "where I may…" he shrugged, "have mentioned in passing like, how lucky he is to have you."

Grissom frowned. "You never said that."

"It's tough though, isn't it?" Brass went on, ignoring Grissom, and her brow pinched Sara refocused on the captain, "for men like us, you know, past their prime, to find someone special we'd want to…turn our life around for."

Brass's words hit too close to home for Grissom. He lowered his gaze uncomfortably before bringing it back up again and looking straight at Sara, who was watching him with a soft smile on her face.

"And you're right," Brass told Grissom, unaware of the undercurrent, "I couldn't do high maintenance. Too much like hard work."

He took his place at the table, and the three of them piled food up onto their tortillas. Brass's cooking tasted as good as it smelled, and Grissom was glad to see Sara eating with gusto. She looked well and happy, animated as she chatted with Brass, and he hoped that soon she would be able to put all the trauma surrounding the fire behind her.

"How's the case going?" Sara asked casually as she put the last morsel of her second wrap into her mouth.

Grissom stopped mid-chew and looked over at Brass, who staring back at him shrugged his shoulders. Neither man needed explaining which case she was talking about. "We're…following a positive line of enquiry," Brass replied evasively.

"I know that," Sara said, "Heather's sister. I was just wondering if you were closer to locating her."

Grissom finished his mouthful, then used his napkin to wipe sauce from the corner of his mouth. "We found her car," he said in a sigh when Brass stared at him pointedly, "Abandoned at McCarran's long-term parking. She used the money she stole from Heather to buy herself a ticket to San Diego."

Sara pondered the information for a beat. "It's been a week," she said. "She's probably crossed the border into Mexico by now."

Grissom reached for Sara's hand on the table and squeezed it. "We'll get to the bottom of it, I promise you."

Sara gave him a wan smile and nodded her head. The mood somewhat dampened, they finished their meal in silence.

"You tired?" Sara asked, when Grissom stifled yet another yawn.

"A little," he replied. "I haven't been getting all that much sleep lately," he added with a sheepish smile.

"You're working tonight?" Brass asked.

Grissom nodded, looked at Sara. "I wanted to take the night off, you know, but…"

"We thought it might look conspicuous," Sara finished for him.

Grissom smiled at her use of 'we'. "I got tomorrow night off instead."

Brass pushed to his feet and began clearing the table. "You two go get busy somewhere, while I clean up here."

"We'll help," Grissom said, and that was what they did.

As some time later he lay in bed dozing with Sara tucked against his side, Grissom couldn't help thinking back to their conversation during lunch and what he'd kept back from her about the mystery male passenger in Leah's car. Security footage from McCarran's gangways and main departure halls waited at the lab, ready to be viewed. If only they could get a clearer view of the man, Grissom thought, then they could show his picture on the news get an ID, and track Leah down this way. He sighed. Sara shifted in his arm, and he forced his mind back to the here and then.

"I've missed this," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I've missed you."

Sara smiled, kissed his shoulder. "Me too."

She trailed a finger down his bare forearm, then up and back down again. Keeping his eyes closed, Grissom took her hand, stilled it, then clasped it safely to his chest. Sara shifted again, gently pulling her hand out from his grasp but keeping it there. After a while, he felt her hand move again, popping a button on his shirt and slipping inside the opening. The ghost of a smile formed on his face when a few seconds later she began stroking feather-light fingers to his chest.

A door closed noisily in the next room. A truck drove past outside, slowing down before accelerating again. A dog barked in a yard nearby. In response, Hank stood up, then shook himself and jumped off the end of the bed. Grissom opened his eyes, his smile vanishing as he shifted uncomfortably at Sara's touch. He simply found it impossible to relax. Sara pulled her hand out of his shirt, pushed up on an elbow and touched her hand to his face, her lips to his.

"Sara…" he sighed, mildly complaining.

"You heard what the doc said," she purred.

He frowned.

"He said to get back to as normal a routine as possible."

Smiling, Grissom shook his head in disbelief before closing his eyes again at the sudden rush of desire that coursed through him when she brushed her hand to his groin.

"I don't know if I'm going to be able to stay here," he said in another sigh.

Sara's hand stilled and she turned her face up toward him. "Why not?"

He cocked a brow, meaning, "Isn't it obvious?" "I don't think I'll be able to show the restraint I'd need to in order to be a good guest."

A slow smile of understanding creeping up over her face, Sara settled against him again without commenting. Just as Grissom closed his eyes again, Sara's hand stroked down to his stomach, causing him to suck it in in a vain attempt to counteract the effect her touch was having on him. His eyes snapped open, and once again he pulled her hand off him.

"Sara, please, I can't do this."

Sara pushed up on her elbow. "Do what?"

He shrugged. "You know. I just can't relax here."

"Think about it this way. I could be staying at your mother's."

Grissom scoffed. "Or at home."

"Home?"

He smiled, nodded his head tenderly, and her expression softened lovingly. "It's not too late," he added.

"It's only for one week," Sara argued sweetly. "I'm sure you can manage it. Besides, I can help you relax." A mischievous smile tugging at her lips, she shifted up into a sitting position next to him. "Do you want me to massage your shoulders?"

"No," Grissom said, bewildered by the offer. "I don't want you to massage my shoulders. Let's just…lay here some more. Maybe I can get to sleep."

"Sure," Sara said, her smile fading.

"Besides, it's a bad idea," he said. "The doc said no strenuous activity."

Sara's smile returned. "It doesn't have to be strenuous," she remarked softly, once again sneaking her hand under his shirt before thinking better of it and moving to straddle him. A rogue smile pulling at her lips, she began slowly undoing the remaining shirt buttons before pulling the sides out of his pants. "Or I could just lay there while you do all the work."

Cocking his brow, Grissom lowered his eyes to her cleavage, his hands to her panty-clad ass. "You'd have to be real quiet."

"Oh, I can be quiet," she said, in a husky whisper. "If you can."

Grissom's lips twitched up in a smile. "Shift up," he said, and when she did noiselessly stood up from the bed and walked over to the door. Hank immediately followed him there, and he opened the door a crack, letting an unsuspecting Hank out. Then he closed the door again and turned the lock as noiselessly as he could, and a soft smile on his lips turned back to his quarry. Because torment her he would.

Walking back to her, Grissom slipped of his shirt and let it fall to the floor while Sara pulled her cotton blouse over her head. Kneeling down next to her on the bed, Grissom trailed a leisurely finger up and down her arm, to her shoulder, slipping it under her bra strap and pulling it down. Just as he brought his mouth to kiss the spot he'd uncovered, there was a gentle knock on the door following by Brass's voice calling his name quietly. Grissom froze and his eyes wide with panic pulled away from Sara.

"He's asleep," Sara called back in a whisper, her voice remarkably steady.

"I got to head out," Brass said. "You going to be okay?"

"Sure."

"You need me to pick anything up?"

Sara looked a question at Grissom who just shook his head in response.

"No, thanks."

"Okay." There was a pause, then movement behind the door and a small whine from Hank. "I'll make sure Hank stays in the kitchen."

Sara pinched her lips. "Thanks, Jim."

"Sorry buddy," Brass said, his voice moving away. "They don't want you."

"Do you think he heard us?" Grissom asked, crestfallen at the thought, and sat down at the edge of the bed.

"Does it matter if he did?" Sara asked.

_Of course it does_, Grissom thought, but all that came out of his mouth was a despondent sigh. Kneeling on the bed behind him, Sara draped her arms over his shoulders and leaned her face against his bare back. He raised his right hand to her joined ones, holding her to him, and closed his eyes. Shortly thereafter, the front door shut in the distance and they heard Brass start up his car before reversing out of the drive.

Sara moved again, a breath escaping his lips when she pressed soft lips to his left shoulder blade before nuzzling her face into his neck and kissing the pulse point just above the clavicle. Her hands lowered to his pants belt buckle, loosening it and pulling at the button, before her right hand eased under the waistband of his pants.

"We don't need to be so quiet now," she said into his ear.

Grissom whipped his face toward her and laughed in disbelief while Sara reached up her hand to stroke his face. She wasn't laughing, or even smiling, the look in her eyes solemn and yearning as she raised her hands to her back, unhooked her bra and took it off.

"You don't give up, do you?" he asked, his hand automatically lifting to her breast.

"Not usually, no," she replied in a throaty whisper.

Grissom brought his eyes back to her face and leaned across to kiss her lips, every other thought momentarily, finally, pushed aside. Sara responded with a fervour that matched his own, and deepening the kiss he eased her down onto her side while positioning himself alongside her so as not to crush her chest. As they kissed, his hand moved to her throat, stroking down to her sternum, between her breasts before cupping one and breaking the kiss to bring his mouth to it.

He pulled back slightly and could only stare at her, breathless and dizzy, as again he pondered how lucky he was and how close he'd come to losing her. Sara reached up her hand, smiled and stroked his face. Grissom glanced over his shoulder to check that the door was indeed locked. It wouldn't be the first time Hank walked in on them at the worst time. Then he turned back to Sara and keeping his gaze locked to hers put his mouth on her nipple and gently slipped his hand under the waistband of her panties. Her eyes squeezed shut as a soft moan escaped and she rolled onto her back.

He pulled back from her and slowly slipped her panties down her legs. Her back arched up, seeking more of his touch as her legs parted for him. The panties came off. Eyes still closed, Sara surrendered herself to his touch; her back, her breast, her thighs and shoulders. His hands, his lips, his tongue, in her mouth, down her neck, over her nipple, the thatch of black hair between her legs, then back to her mouth. Sara's breathing was coming hard now, raspy and wheezy, and he froze, Doctor Alvarez's face suddenly appearing in front of his eyes, his words of warning loud and clear.

"Why are you stopping?" Sara asked in a breathless whisper when he pulled back from her.

Looking utterly discomfited, Grissom shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I can't do it, Sara. I just can't. I'm sorry." His voice was low, dejected. "There are just too many reasons why we shouldn't."

Sara didn't say anything. She shuffled into a sitting position and averting her eyes concentrated on easing her breathing.

"You want your inhaler?" he asked, watching her with concern.

Glancing up at him, Sara nodded her head glumly. "I just need one puff." Despite the situation, a slow smile grew on his face. "Don't," she said between two pants, smiling too. "Don't say anything."

He didn't. He felt vindicated enough.


End file.
